


Saving Ambassador Sarek

by notfreyja, Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Series: Meteors Fright The Fixed Stars [3]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Fucking Romulans, Gen, Kidnapping, Romulans, These Kids Are Grounded For 'Til College, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-05-29 17:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15078083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notfreyja/pseuds/notfreyja, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: The children of the Enterprise crew are living relatively normal lives, nowadays, barely having any adventures or doing anything unexpected. Peter, in particular, is living a very normal life, right up until his godfather misses a scheduled vidcall during one of his diplomatic missions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We love these babies and have a whole universe planned just for them, because they deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To place this in the timeline, the ages of the cast is as follows:  
> Demora Sulu - 15  
> The Pike Twins - 19  
> Peter Kirk - 22  
> David Marcus - 25  
> Saavik - 27  
> Joanna McCoy - 33

Peter knows that Sarek’s job can be very dangerous. He knows that sometimes, his trips are classified, secret to all but a select few. Sometimes, Sarek will not even tell  _ him _ where he is going, cannot tell him when he will return. It happens, and Peter accepts this, even if he does not like it.

 

This trip is no different.

 

It is clear Sarek can sense his distress. It is clear in the way he meets Peter’s eyes before he goes, the way he reaches out to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly in silent promise. _ I will return, _ he says without saying, and maybe Peter isn’t telepathic like Sarek is, but he understands what he’s being told just the same.

 

Sarek is unusually tactile for a Vulcan, even for a parent. Perhaps it is something he picked up from Lady Amanda, when she still lived, perhaps it is just a way to comfort Peter specifically, a Human on a Vulcan planet, a Kirk without the Kirkish quirks that make his uncle a living legend of the Federation. Regardless, Peter appreciates it, even if it doesn’t alleviate the odd sense of dread heavy in the pit of his stomach.

 

He has a bad feeling about this.

 

“I will call you when we leave port,” he says. “Communications once we leave orbit will be impossible, so Spock will call to check on you in the evening.”

 

“I understand.” Peter offers a ta’al. “Live long, Uncle Sarek.”

 

Sarek’s hand slides from his shoulder and returns the salute. Then he picks up his bag, and he leaves.

 

The door  _ snicks _ shut behind Sarek, and Peter is alone. Sighing, he slumps against the table, crossing his arms under the billowing sleeves of his robes. He doesn’t feel right. Uncle Jim would call it a  _ gut instinct, _ but that’s stupid. There’s no logical reason for his discomfort with Sarek’s departure. He has left on such missions before, and yet…

 

It should take Sarek an hour and fourteen minutes to reach port, and another eighteen minutes for the ship to take off. It will be a small, private vessel, primarily used for civilian interstellar travel. It will take six minutes for the ship to leave orbit at average speed, and that will be when he calls Peter.

 

He has to wait an hour and a half, give or take a few minutes.

 

Peter can do that.

  
  


*.*

  
  


It’s been three hours, and Sarek has not called.

 

Outwardly, Peter is perfectly placid. He is twenty-two, nearly an adult in the eyes of his people—  _ Vulcan _ people. He can handle being alone, has been handling it since he was thirteen and considered mature enough in his Vulcan godfather’s eyes to be left home alone (not including T’Shir) during diplomatic meetings.

 

Inside, he is panicking. Sarek has not called, and he  _ always _ calls when promises, and that horrible feeling in his stomach is getting worse, and, and…

 

And Peter has a motorcycle.

 

He didn’t buy it, obviously, and neither did Sarek. No, this was Uncle Jim’s contribution to his upbringing— a heavy, loud, vintage motorcycle, complete with a reinforced synthetic leather jacket (“Have you ever seen a guy skinned via concrete, Pete? It’s not pretty.”), a pair of goggles, and riding lessons.

 

His robes come off in exchange for a pair of sturdy jeans and a short sleeved t-shirt left behind by his uncle long before Peter came to New Vulcan. The clothing is uncomfortable; Peter is used to Vulcan robes, used to the loose fabric and the freedom of movement they afford. The jeans are too tight, the shirt oddly cut and of poor quality, but right now? Peter doesn’t care. Peter needs to be able to ride a motorcycle, and this is what a person wears when riding such a machine.

 

His comm is tucked in his inner breast pocket in case it rings while he rides. The wind whips at his hair as he roars through the desert, cutting across the valley in an effort to quicken his arrival. Forty minutes later, he pulls into port, careless of the eyes his appearance draws. He is Human. For all his respect for Vulcan culture, he is Human. He is afforded leniency in ways no Vulcan would ever be allowed.

 

Peter doesn’t know which ship Sarek meant to take, but it would not be a Vulcan vessel. So, he walks the port until he finds a ship under an Andorian name.

 

The captain is clearly irritated when Peter approaches him, green eyes narrowing when he catches sight of the blond.

 

“What’chu want?” he demands.

 

“Apologies, sir,” Peter says carefully. “I am looking for a Vulcan.”

 

The Andorian snorts.

 

“Well,” he says. “There’s plenty of Vulcans around, if you care to take a look.”

 

“I know,” Peter says, the picture of patience. “But I am looking for a specific Vulcan. Did an older male by the name of Shvai—” That is one of Sarek’s aliases, not that Peter knows anything about that. “— pass by this way?”

 

“Shvai… nope. Otherwise he’d be on my ship and I’d be halfway to Risa by now,” the captain says. “Bastard booked passage and never showed. A waste of my blessed time, let me tell you.”

 

Peter suddenly feels very, very cold.

 

“I apologize if he has inconvenienced you,” Peter says, swallowing. “Thank you, sir.”

 

Peter turns away, heart beating wildly in his chest.

 

Sarek did not make it to his ship. He left the house at the scheduled time, but he never arrived to board the ship. This is  _ bad. _ This is  _ wrong. _ Peter’s silly, _ illogical _ gut feeling was correct.

 

He should call Uncle Jim— no, he can’t. Uncle Jim is one for drastic measures, and this simply might be a matter of an accident on the road, or a different ship, or a different alias. Plus, if Uncle Jim knows, so will Spock, and there’s no need to worry Spock if it turns out to be nothing.

 

The wrongness only gets stronger on the ride back. It slides like oil through Peter’s veins, cold and slick. He needs to call someone. This could be dangerous.

 

Except he can’t. Sarek’s mission was secret, classified, likely off-the-books. To involve anyone in Starfleet in an official capacity (or even in an unofficial capacity)  might put his mission in jeopardy, might put his life in jeopardy.

 

Peter can’t stand the thought.

 

It hits him as he’s wheeling the motorcycle into the small structure built for its containment—  _ Jo _ .

 

Jo has a ship. Jo isn’t an active member of Starfleet, though Peter is under the impression she may still be registered as an Academy student. She can help him figure out where Sarek has gone, he is sure of it. All he needs is access to Sarek’s data files— nothing too difficult, if he’s being honest. Sarek uses the same encryption code for everything.

 

Tugging his comm free from his pocket, he pulls up the contact information of one Joanna McCoy. 

 

He presses call.


	2. Chapter 2

Jo is on Earth. Officially, it’s so she can visit family, family being the Pikes and the Sulus. Unofficially, well… a certain Andorian and a few of  _ the guys _ are restocking her cargo hold with an array of microbrewed, liquid delicacies.

 

Mr. Sulu is taking advantage of Jo in her old age, and has left her to fend for herself against the nearly-twenty year old Pike twins and their fifteen year old Sulu-blooded protege. So far, it hasn’t been so bad— after all, it’s been three hours, and all they’ve done to her is force her to act as the base of a puppy pile of teenagers, all of whom are seemingly content to slowly crush her as they take in yet another Terran classic— _ Farscape. _

 

Her comm vibrates against her butt cheek. Sighing, she wriggles an arm free and digs it out, flipping it open.

 

“Hey, Peter.”

 

“Jo? Are you alone?”

 

She frowns.

 

“I— no, gimme a second.” Patting Tubey’s side, she rolls out from under the kids and pushes herself to her feet.

 

“Be right back, guys,” she says over her shoulder as she moves to the kitchen. She looks back at her comm.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Peter’s mouth pinches slightly, an obvious tell.

 

“It may be nothing,” he starts. “But something is irregular, and I would like assistance in discovering why this might be so.”

 

Jo sighs. Peter’s too Vulcan, sometimes.

 

“What’s happening, Pete?”

 

“Sarek left this afternoon on a classified diplomatic mission,” he says. “Though communication would be impossible upon leaving orbit, he promised to comm me before he left. He did not, and when I went to the docking area, it appeared that he never made it to the ship he was meant to board.”

 

Jo goes stiff.

 

“What do you mean, he never made it to the ship?” she says. “Sarek’s a stickler for punctuality.”

 

“The alias with which he booked passage was familiar to the ship captain I spoke to. He claimed Sarek never arrived.”

 

Okay. Well, this could be bad.

 

“I am gaining access to his personal files now in an effort to discover his destination. I was hoping— if you are not otherwise occupied— that you might assist me in discovering his whereabouts.” Peter swallows, then adds, in a small voice. “I am… concerned, Jo. Something is not as it should be.”

 

Jo nods.

 

“Alright,” she says, thinking quickly. “I can be there in three days. Can you hold out ‘til then?”

“Affirmative.”

 

“Okay. Good.” Jo bites her lip, thinking quickly. She can leave Demora with the twins. Mr. Sulu knows they went to visit the Pikes, and would probably stop by to pick his daughter up on the way home from the grocery store.

 

“Three days,” she says again. “Don’t do anything Kirkish at least until I get there, okay?”

 

Peter nods curtly.

 

“Thank you, Jo,” he says. “I hope you do not mind, but I have also contacted David. He and Saavik would like to accompany you on your ship, if possible.”

 

That’s… company’s probably good, if the kid’s really as nervous as he seems.

 

“Yeah, that’s fine. Have them meet me at the  _ Shu Fu.” _ She smiles. “We’ll be there soon, okay?”

 

“Understood. I await your arrival. Peter out.”

 

The comm blinks off, and Jo sighs, running an agitated hand through her hair.

 

Pete’s a good kid, mature for his age thanks to a good mixture of above-average intelligence and half a decade of education alongside Vulcan children. He’s soft, though, safe in a way Jo hasn’t felt since Khan crashed a starship into San Francisco. Sarek has taken extra care of Peter, doing everything he could to assure his Human ward lived a reasonably happy, comfortable life on Vulcan, free of the worries that usually plague the relatives of notorious starship captains and their crews.

 

His fear is probably unwarranted, but he’s scared, and he’s asking for help.

 

Jo’s gonna give it to him.

 

When she steps back into the living room, the kids aren’t there anymore. Likely, they’ve sequestered themselves in the twins’ room to build explosives or some such thing— it wouldn’t be the first time.

 

“Guys, I have to go!” she shouts up the stairs. “Be good, tell Number One there was an emergency, don’t set anything on fire!”

 

There’s a chorus agreement from somewhere upstairs, and, safe in the knowledge that at least one of her demands would be met, she toes on her shoes, grabs her keys, and heads out onto the street.

 

If she were paying attention, she would have noticed the shuttle pull up in front of the house, and the three shadows that slip out of the house and into the shuttle not a minute after she leaves. She doesn’t, though, and the shuttle’s occupants take care to duck when they pass her not a moment later.

 

Well, she’ll figure them out sooner or later.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Ch’th’ukla is surprised to see her when she steps onto the ship.

 

“I thought you were having a family day,” she says when Jo goes to hug her.

 

“Same. There’s a bit of a family emergency on the  _ other _ side of the galaxy, though,” she says. “Gotta ship out today. Did you get everything onboard?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re good to go. Is everyone alright?”

 

Jo sighs.

 

“Hopefully it’s just a false alarm,” she says. “But better safe than sorry, you know?”

 

“Jo!”

 

Jo turns at the voice.

 

“Davey,” she says, accepting a kiss on the cheek when he gets close enough. “Saavik, the curls look good on you.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“What’s happening? Pete just said…” David trails off, lowering his voice. “He said Sarek didn’t contact him when he was supposed to?”

 

“Everything’s probably fine,” she says, holding up a placating hand. “But he’s a little freaked, so we’re going to go make sure he’s alright. Just in case, you know?”

 

David glances at Saavik, then claps his hands together.

 

“Okay, awesome. Field trip!” he says. “Hey, who are your friends?”

 

Jo glances at Ch’th’ukla, who rolls her eyes.

 

“Nobody you need to know, little boy,” she says, stepping up beside Jo. “We’ll be on our way. Comm me if you need anything, alright?”

 

“Yeah. Thanks, Ch’th’ukla, Frankie, Rodrigo.”

 

“Happy to help,” Rodrigo says, patting her shoulder. “Good luck, alright?”

 

“Thanks.”

 

She looks back to David and his bondmate.

 

“Get in the ship. We’ve got a Kirk to take care of.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Number Two:

Mother, Number Three and I will be joining Jo on an impromptu trip to New Vulcan. Is that acceptable?

 

Mother:

Very well. Do not do any lasting harm while she is responsible for you. She does not have the funds to have you released from a detention center a second time.

 

Number Three:

Understood, Mother. Tell Dad not to worry?

 

Number One:

I will not waste my breath.


	3. Chapter 3

The problem with warp? There’s a lot of math. Jo hates math. She’s usually pretty bad at it, hence the reason most of her math is preprogrammed between Earth and wherever she’s going.

 

She doesn’t bother to sit down when she goes to put in the coordinates, leaning over the chair the moment they’re out of orbit to plug in the coordinates for warp.

 

She doesn’t notice the little dark-haired slip of a girl settled in the chair until she speaks.

 

“Why would you put that in? There’s easier ways to get to Vulcan.”

 

Jo startles, one hand flying up to her throat.

 

“Demora?” she says, incredulous. “How the— who the—  _ Pikes! _ ”

 

“Yes, Jo?”

 

She straightens, whirling around to glare at the teenagers.

 

_“Again?”_ she demands. “You sneak onto my goddamn ship _again?_ _Why?”_

 

“You are not very observant,” Connor says. “It makes it quite simple to do so.”

 

“Mother said it was alright if we helped you on your mission,” Tubey informs her placidly. “She said a trip to New Vulcan would be acceptable.”

 

Demora smiles up at Jo.

 

“See? We’ve got permission and everything,” she says sweetly. “So you can’t say no!”

 

“I very well can,” Jo says. “We’re turning around, right now, and you two—” she turns back to jab her finger at the twins. “Will take Demora back home and apologize to Mr. Sulu for taking his daughter on an impromptu trip out of the atmosphere.”

 

“But we have permission,” Connor repeats, brow furrowing in confusion. “You always say we need permission from our guardians if we wish to board  _ Shu Fu, _ and we have secured it.”

 

Jo sighs, running a hand through hair.

 

“Yeah, okay, I get that, good job,” she says. “But Peter thinks Sarek is missing, and this could be dangerous, okay? I don’t want to be responsible if you two die, alright? Your Mom’s too scary for—”

 

“Entering warp,” the computer chirps behind her.

 

Jo freezes, then turns slowly back to Demora, who is doing her best to look nonchalant.

 

David sighs and pats Jo on the shoulder comfortingly.

 

“Pete could use the company,” he says. “If it’s serious, we can always call Number One and have her pick them up from Vulcan. We’ll probably have to call Grandpa Chris anyway, after all.”

 

Jo shakes her head. David does have a point. Peter _ could _ probably use the company, and what’s family for, if not to curl around you and make sure you don’t lose your mind when your Dad disappears on a secret mission?

 

“Fine,” she says. “But we’re going to be a little cramped. My cargo hold’s packed, and I’ve only got three rooms.”

 

“Me ‘n’ Saavik’ll share,” David says. “And I guess the twins…?”

 

“We will be fine sharing,” Tubey says, nodding.

 

“Does that mean I share with you, Jo?” Demora asks, peering at her from over the back of the chair.

 

This is the worst decision Jo has ever made.

 

“Yes, you monster-child, it does.”

 

Demora squeaks happily, hopping off the chair to hug Jo around the middle.

 

“Sleepover with Jo!” she says. “Awesome!”

 

Jo hates her life.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“What has happened to your engine room?”

 

If Jo didn’t know better, she’d say that was disgust in Saavik’s voice.

 

“It was fucked before I got here,” Jo says. “It got better.”

 

“If this is better, I shudder to see what it looked like before.” Saavik glances around. “Where are your tools?”

 

“Er… under the bench—”

 

“I will be here if you need me,” Saavik says, pulling a hair-tie from her wrist and pulling back her hair. “I must ensure this ship lasts the trip to Vulcan.”

 

“Hey, now, she’s done perfectly well so far—”

 

“Don’t even bother, Jo.” David’s smiling, and he looks exactly like his father. “Saavik’s a perfectionist when it comes to the engine room. Just let her be, and _ Shu Fu  _ will be purring like... like some big purring thing by the time we land.”

 

Jo rolls her eyes.

 

“This is my ship, you know,” she complains as he leads her out. “Mine. I won it and everything.”

 

“You won it,” David corrects. “Off  _ Harry Mudd. _ Don’t be so proud, Jo.”

 

“I should never have told you that.”

 

“You shouldn’t have done a lot of things,” David replies, shrugging. “Like leave Starfleet and start bootlegging for dry planets, for instance. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

 

“Shut up, Marcus.” Jo is the queen of zingers, let me tell you. “What do you plan on doing for what is sure to be a very boring three days?”

 

“Me? I’m building a lightsaber.”

 

“... Are you serious?”

 

“Deadly.” David grins. “I’ve almost got it, too— Mom says it could really be useful if Starfleet actually ended up playing war games. As it stands, it does make for an excellent steak knife, providing your steak is the size of a dinner table.”

 

She’s surrounded by the children of crazy people. She shouldn’t be as surprised as she is at the statement.

 

“... Okay. On that note? It’s almost Demora’s bedtime, and the twins need to shower and I know they won’t if I don’t bug them— and yes, I am aware they’re nineteen years old and should have a grasp on their hygiene by now. Make sure nothing explodes while I go do that, okay?”

 

“Sure, Jo.”

 

“And don’t let your girlfriend do anything drastic.”

 

“Bondmate,” Saavik tonelessly corrects from underneath  console.

 

David gives a sheepish smile. “... I’ll do my best?”

 

Jo’s going to bed.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Peter reads over Sarek’s files for the hundredth time, curled up on the thin sheets of his bed. He reads them over and over again, committing them to memory, because, because…

 

Because this is bad. This is worse than he thought.

 

Sarek has always gotten death threats. This is a sad fact of life that Sarek has long become accustomed to. It is why— on formal diplomatic missions, at least— he tends to travel with a small guard. It is a precaution, one Peter has relied on since he learned about Sarek’s uncanny ability to attract the eyes of separatists everywhere.

 

These notes, these declarations, they smack of something else. Peter reads each word and sees organization, financial backing, certainty. These are not the words of unhappy nobility, these are the words of a movement, a movement that wishes nothing more than the destruction of every ideal the Federation stands for. That Sarek himself stands for.

 

The Romulan Star Empire is a cunning beast with many heads. Sarek, it seems, may have been caught in the jaws of one of them.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

After the events of that first, fateful Hanukkah, Sarek thought it prudent to build a small, private dock on his estate. That’s where the  _ Shu Fu _ lands, complete with a minor dust storm.

 

Peter is already waiting, lilac robes billowing agitatedly around him as the door decompresses and falls open.

 

“I really ought’a get that fixed,” Jo says, coughing at the sudden dust in her face. “Hey, Peter, is everything okay? I brought people.”

 

“Petey, you don’t look too good.”

 

“That is unsurprising,” Peter says, tone hollow even as he accepts David’s hug. “I fear that my uncle has been playing with fire, David.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Peter takes a deep breath, then shakes his head.

 

“It would be better to talk inside,” he says. “There are ears everywhere— Demora, Connor, Tubey. You came as well?”

 

“We overheard your call to Jo,” Connor admits, shrugging. “We thought you might need comfort.”

 

“Or aid.” Tubey arches an eyebrow. “You are afraid, cousin.”

 

Peter swallows.

 

“We will speak inside,” he says. “Come. I need to show you something.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Whoever did this is going to fucking _ die.” _

 

Peter watches impassively as David slams his fist against the countertop, cheeks red with restrained fury. His cousin isn’t a particularly violent man despite his interest in weapons technology, but he— like all of the Kirks, and other cousins beyond— has a special place in his heart for their reticent uncle. In all the time that Peter’s known him, he’s never looked more like Uncle Jim.

 

He turns to the rest of his cousins rather than address that particular problem. David will need a moment to collect himself, and anything Peter could think to say would only make it worse. It’s funny how history repeats itself. They both inherited their father’s tempers.

 

“Uncle Sarek has developed an interest in continuing Ambassador Spock’s work regarding the Romulan Star Empire,” he says, each word clipped with forced calm. “He has been more fully developing the connections Ambassador Spock forged before his death, through written correspondence and, on occasion, face to face meetings with select members of the Romulan government. These meetings, as far as the Federation is concerned, are unsanctioned, despite their support. They have access to all communications sent between Uncle Sarek and his contacts, likely with his consent.” He takes a deep breath. “Four hours after I contacted Jo, a ransom was sent to Uncle Sarek’s communicator— the one he uses for these select Romulan contacts— demanding the release of certain political prisoners in exchange for Uncle Sarek’s life.”

 

“... And?” Demora asks, voice small.

 

“And approximately twenty-three hours later, the Federation replied, accessing Uncle Sarek’s communicator from a third location, claiming they have no notion of what Uncle Sarek was doing in the Romulan Neutral Zone, and that they do not negotiate with terrorists.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “Sixteen and three-quarters of an hour later, the Romulans sent a communication that implied their displeasure and disbelief. This morning, I found this,” he points to the beautifully formed silver box sitting open on the counter, its contents pillowed on a deep green of Romulan silk. “In our mail.”

 

“Who was he meeting?” Tubey asks. To most people, she would look completely unbothered by the contents of the box, but Peter isn’t most people. He can see the way she clutches her brother’s wrist under the counter, the way her mouth is pinched and her eyes are too sharp.

 

“A lesser son of a government official, otherwise unnamed.” Peter looks at Jo. “Jo, could I ask you to make use of your medical expertise and tell me what you can about the— the finger?”

 

Jo had thrown up when he’d opened the box for them. She still looks a little green, honestly.

 

“I’m a nursing student, not a forensic scientist,” she mutters, fingers white with the force of her grip around the glass of water he’d given her. “I can’t tell you much.”

 

“Could you tell me if he was alive when they did it?” Peter asks. “And approximately when he was mutilated?”

 

Jo looks like she’s holding back the urge to vomit again, eyes finding the box against her will. After a moment, she nods, swallowing before reaching into the pockets of her long brown coat to pull out a pair of leather work gloves. She tugs them on, then reaches out, her fingers hovering uncertainty over the open box before picking up the finger.

 

“Uh…” Jo settles her elbows on the table, leaning forward to peer at the finger carefully. “It’s his— it’s an pinky finger, right hand. As for lividity… it’s probably been about a day? More, maybe, since it looks like it was… refrigerated.” She pauses, meeting Peter’s eyes. “He was alive when they cut it off.”

 

Peter takes a deep breath.

 

“Good,” he says, looking away. “That’s good. Okay.”

 

“Where was he meant to meet his contact?” Connor asks, eyes on the window. “Romulan Neutral Zone?”

 

“Just inside Federation Space,” Peter says. “A small asteroid that serves as a way station for smugglers and scoundrels alike. It is unlikely he made it there, however, as the evidence implies he was taken from Vulcan itself.”

 

“That means a spy,” Tubey says. “On Vulcan.”

 

Peter shakes his head.

 

“It’s more likely that these were simply men for hire,” he says. “More often than not Uncle Sarek made use of less than legal connections to make such meetings. It would not be unlikely that one such contact was found and made use of. Romulan tactics would not have left them alive after they’d fulfilled their purpose.”

 

“So how the fuck are we supposed to find them?” David demands. “Call Dad?”

 

“Uncle’s Spock’s gonna blow his lid,” Demora whispers, and there’s a sort of awe coloring her voice that reminds Peter of the same emotion that colors Uncle Jim’s voice when he talks about ion storms or parallel universes.

 

“Except we’re not going to tell Uncle Spock,” Tubey says, her gaze calculating when Peter meets her eyes. “Or Jim. Or anybody. Are we, Peter?”

 

Peter’s jaw clenches.

 

“I don’t think it’ll matter until we’ve at least located Uncle Sarek,” he says. “And even then… Uncle Jim and Uncle Spock are Starfleet. They can’t do anything without the Federation’s say-so.”

 

“Which brings us back to the original problem,” David says. “How the fuck are we supposed to find him?”

 

“... I might have a way,” Peter admits after a moment. “But I didn’t want to test it until I was certain… that there was a point.”

 

David’s eyes narrow.

 

“Do it.”

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

It had been almost a joke, when Peter was young. Sarek had always made a point of ensuring that Peter had his family around him, inviting David and Saavik home to New Vulcan for the holidays or bringing him to stay with the Pikes or the Sulus when his diplomatic missions were longer than a few days. During once such visit, Peter had found his cousins had developed an interest in friendship bracelets, and was promptly dragged into their new obsession.

 

The beads were supposed to be for children, little glass trinkets that, with a tap from one child, would light the matched pair as far as three galaxies away. Peter had made a matching pair for himself and his uncle, and, true to form, Sarek had allowed him to tie the little blue-and-yellow string bracelet around his wrist, reluctant as he may have been at the time.

 

Peter hasn’t seen his uncle’s half of the pair in years, but Peter’s is still stashed in the little jewelry box that Saavik bought him for his birthday, and anyway, he figured out how the damn things worked nearly a decade ago. Maybe he’s banking on sentiment, but it’s all he’s got right now.

 

The PADD in his hands glow with blue code as he works, fingers flying across the keys. The steady pulse of the red loading bar blinks periodically in the corner of the screen, turning his cheeks a nerve-wracking purple as the sun begins to set on the horizon.

 

Jo has opted out of waiting, and is instead shuffling around the kitchen in an effort to make something edible out of ingredients she’s never used before— though, Demora joined her half an hour ago, which might actually help, at this point. Even the twins have settled in, Connor perched on the far end of the couch with a book in his hands while Tubey leans against him, reading over his shoulder.

 

David is the only one who shares the same jittery energy that Peter is, pacing up and down the halls with all the elegance of a Kirk in distress.

 

The screen goes dark very suddenly, brightening again to load up coordinates.

 

Peter takes a deep breath.

 

“I’ve got it,” he says, looking up from the PADD. “I’ve got him.”

 

David crosses the living room in three steps, a large hand catching Peter by the shoulder as he leans forward to read over his shoulder.

 

“Where is he?” Tubey asks, straightening.

 

Peter suppresses the urge to scream.

 

“The Romulan Neutral Zone.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“In theory, we shouldn’t have a problem entering the zone,” Jo says, ducking into the hidden cargo bay as the rest of the family begins to ready the ship for takeoff. “Mudd was given Klingon citizenship after the last war for services rendered and I never actually flipped the title, so it’s still in his name— so long as you or David does the talking when we’re hailed, we should be fine.”

 

Peter nods sharply. He doesn’t feel much like talking.

 

“Now, the weaponry on the  _ Shu Fu _ isn’t too shabby, but it won’t work in a fight against the Romulans. We’re fast though, so there’s that.”

 

“If we can find a way to get onto their ship, that might not matter,” David says, peering curiously at what is definitely a half-built disruptor. “Stealth is probably our best friend, here.”

 

“That’s another thing— we’ve technically got cloaking. We just can’t keep shields up at the same time.”

 

“We can work with that, if we are cautious,” Saavik remarks. “Is that a Series XI Marcus Plasma Cannon?”

 

“It _ is.”  _ David looks up at Jo, eyebrow arched. “You know these things were made illegal in the Federation like, _ immediately  _ after the whole Khan incident, right?”

 

Jo shrugs.

 

“It’s not mounted, or anything,” she says. “It’s not like I wanted the damn thing— not everybody has liquid assets to pay me with. Do you know how much that thing’s worth on the black market?”

 

“So you’re dealing _ weapons  _ now?”

 

“I don’t care about a plasma cannon, legal or not,” Peter says quietly. “This entire endeavor is going to be illegal, so the legality about an unmounted cannon? Not much of a problem for me today.”

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

“... Right.” Jo looks back at the cargo bay. “Anyway, so I’ve got a handful of working phasers, if by some chance we can get onto the ship… problem is, phasers give away who we are. We can’t be causing anymore political scandals than what’s already happening— no need to start a war if we can help it.”

 

David fidgets, then sighs.

 

“I can strip them down, rebuild them into something a little less obvious,” he says. “Tasers, maybe. Those are pretty generic.”

 

“Do it,” Peter says, nodding sharply. “And then—”

 

“Coordinates are put in,” Demora’s voice announces through the crackling speaker system. “Everybody please take your seats and buckle up— we’ll be there in six hours.”

 

“Jesus fuck, is she playing navigator again?” Jo hisses, already moving towards the small bridge. “She’s not even old enough to get a pilot’s license!”

 

She is, however, the daughter of Hikaru Sulu, so really, it’s out of Jo’s hands— in Peter’s opinion, anyway.

 

“Get started on those tasers,” he says, looking at his cousin and his bondmate. “Saavik, make sure the engine room doesn’t explode. I do not have to be an expert to know Jo has made a right mess of this ship.”

 

David and Saavik nod, and with a sigh, Peter goes to find somewhere to lay down. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep— he hasn’t had much more than a few hours, these last few days— but at the very least he can lie down and think, if only for a few hours.

 

He’s going to need a plan, after all.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Number Three:

The situation on Vulcan is more dire than initially expected.

Code orange, soon to be code red.

 

Mother:

Elaborate.

 

Number Two:

Evidence suggests Uncle Sarek was kidnapped enroute to a classified diplomatic meeting. Peter has taken command of the  _ Shu Fu _ , and has given orders to go after him and his kidnappers.

 

Mother:

Do you believe you may need backup? The Enterprise will come if you call.

 

Number Three:

Possibly, however, it may be unwise to call upon Starfleet. We are going into No Man’s Land.

 

Mother:

Klingon or Romulan?

 

Number Two:

… Romulan.

 

Mother:

Your father is going to have a stroke when he hears this.

Perhaps I will only inform him once you have been safely collected.

What are your coordinates?

 

Number Three:

We cannot say. The mission is of utmost importance, mother.

It is family.

 

Number Two:

They sent Peter a finger.

 

Mother:

Understood. Have you told Spock?

 

Number Two:

No one knows but those upon the Shu Fu.

 

Mother:

Perhaps for the best. Such information should be dispensed when it is most advantageous. Or when your uncle is returned to Federation space otherwise unharmed.

I do not like that you are keeping your location from me, children. We will have a conversation on the subject when you return.

Am I understood?

 

Number Two:

Yes, Mother.

 

Number Three:

Sorry, Mom.

 

Mother:

Should you need aid, the Enterprise is currently patrolling the Sirking System, less than an hour from the border. Call if there’s a chance that you or any of your cousins have half of chance of being captured or killed. Your success in this mission will determine your punishment when you return home.

Good luck.

  
  


Connor looks up from his communicator, horror glinting in his dull brown eyes.

 

“She’s going to murder us,” he murmurs to his sister. She gives him a small, rare smile, safe in privacy in the bedroom they’d claimed for themselves.

 

“Only if we die,” she says. “Or if anyone else dies. We can manage that sort of thing, though. That is only seven people— eight, counting Uncle Sarek.”

 

Connor sighs, setting his communicator on the metal nightstand by the bed.

 

“I wonder if she’ll turn me into a jacket or a new pair of boots,” he says almost idly. “Since she’ll still be skinning us when we succeed.”

 

“She will not skin us. Boil us alive, maybe, but not skin us.” Tubey lies back on the bed, squirming until she’s settled just right on the thin mattress. “Dad loves us— he would stop her.”

 

“Or _ help  _ her.” Connor swallows. “You know how they get when their moods line up.”

 

Tubey allows herself a delicate shudder.

 

“Good point.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you seen those friendship lamps, the ones where you can tap yours and your buddy's will light up? That's basically what the beads are.


	6. Chapter 6

Sarek sits hunched over himself, his robes rumpled and bloody as he nurses his injured hand. It’s been three days since the Federation sent their response to the Romulans’ demands. Three days, and three fingers.

 

He needs to meditate, but he now lacks the control to do so. In order to regain that control, he must meditate. He has known agony before, but this… this is something else. Something that pulls at the elastic of Sarek’s control and brings him this much closer to snapping with every passing hour.

 

He is emotionally compromised.

 

The room they’re keeping him in is dark, the simulation of evening hours. There are guards beyond the door of his— he hesitates to say quarters, though the room is too nice to simply be called a cell— who are armed, more than happy to put him down like a Terran dog should he do anything that could even remotely threaten the hold they now have on him. He has done his best to remain passive, sharpening his tongue and smoothing his expression like he never has before.

 

He has yet to scream. Normally, that would mean nothing, but nothing is normal, now, and he finds himself inordinately proud of his control. He doesn’t know how much longer it will last— perhaps another day, maybe two. Not beyond that, though.

 

Light flashes quite suddenly, dim, but just enough to catch his eye. After a moment, it flashes again, and Sarek looks down to realize the light is coming from under his robes.

 

Carefully, he untangles his good hand from where it cradles the damaged one, and curls his fingers into the fabric pulled around his left knee, pulling it up just enough to peer at the bracelet tied loosely around his ankle.

 

It’s just a trinket, a present from Peter when he was a boy, made of carefully knotted string and a few colorful beads. Sarek has only ever allowed himself one vice, and this trinket, much like the thin golden band he wears on a chain around his neck, is the only evidence of any such thing.

 

Sarek is old. He’s allowed to be a sentimental old fool, on occasion.

 

The bead flashes again, this time more urgently. Sarek remembers Peter’s brief fascination with ancient Terran forms of communication— dots and dashes, like most things, have been pressed into his memory since Peter admitted an interest— and it’s nearly effortless to make meaning of the flashes.

 

COMING FOR YOU STOP.

 

Sarek draws his legs up onto the bed, hissing when he jostles his injury when he stretches to run his fingers over the bead.

 

NO STOP, he taps back.

 

TOO LATE. KIRK GENES ACTIVATED is the response. JO DAVID SAAVIK TWO THREE SULU COMING FOR YOU STOP.

 

It isn’t Vulcan to swear, and Sarek has never felt the urge to. Before now, anyway.

 

IT IS ILLOGICAL STOP.

 

I AM HUMAN STOP. There’s a pause, too short for Sarek to come up with something to say beside ‘I raised you better than that’. SHIP IN RANGE WILL TRY DIPLOMACY FIRST STOP.

 

AND IF IT FAILS STOP.

 

WE BLOW THEM TO HELL STOP.

 

Sarek wonders if he’ll survive this rescue mission. It seems unlikely, if that’s the plan. At the same time, he can’t help the illogical bubble of hope that starts to warm him, building in his side before spreading up his ribcage.

 

Peter is intelligent, just like his father and uncle before him. If he survives this frankly moronic plan, he’ll be the best of Sarek’s clan, perhaps he’ll have learned the humility he needs to become someone truly great.

 

He just needs to survive.

  
  


*.*

  
  


David had found himself with a lot of time on his hands after he built the tasers. It only took like, three hours, after all, and they spent another six in warp after that. And yeah, if he wanted to, he could help Saavik in the engine room or try and distract Jo from muttering anxiously over her first aid kit or figure out where the twins are before they find a viable way to take control of the whole system, but instead, he’s sitting here, one eye on his lightsaber as he fiddles with the wiring and the other eye on his cousin, watching him pace up and down the length of the hold as he tries to think.

 

“What’s that?” Demora asks from over his shoulder, making David jump.

 

“Fuck, Demo, don’t you know better than to startle a guy with a weapon in his hands?”

 

Demora shrugs, dropping neatly into the chair beside him as she tears open a granola bar.

 

“Sorry,” she says, careless. “So, what is it?”

 

David looks down at his project.

 

“It’s supposed to be a lightsaber,” he says, because talking about stupid stuff is way easier than thinking about his uncle and the absolute shitstorm that’s about to hit them. “A prototype of one, anyway.”

 

“Cool,” Demora says. “How’s it work?”

 

Demora’s a good listener, and more importantly, she’s actually interested. David should have expected it, really— she’s been taking fencing since she was five, after all, and she loves Star Wars just as much as any of them.

 

So, he talks to her about it, soothing his own nerves as he explains the issues with trying to make a sword out of lasers, about the physics that have led to the retractable titanium cap at the tip of the blade and the secondary titanium blade hidden underneath the humming violet beams— you know, because the battery power on this thing isn’t as great as it could be, and David believes in backup plans when a person is armed with a short-range weapon.

 

Demora takes it all in with the occasional question regarding the balance of the weapon here or the efficiency of a plug-in charge versus a built in micro-reactor there, and for a good forty minutes, David almost feels normal.

 

And then, the alert goes off.

 

Jo’s up in a flash, throwing the radar up on the main viewscreen.

 

“Cloaked Romulan vessel approaching,” she says as Tubey slides into the seat to her left. “It looks like they have a way of undermining Klingon tech, fuck.”

 

“Of course they do,” David mutters, leaving his saber on the table as he goes to look, Demora on his heels. “Romulans can’t just make shit easy, can they?”

 

“Incoming call from the Romulan vessel,” Tubey says, shoving the earwig into her ear.

 

“Onscreen,” Peter orders, sweeping over to the captain’s chair.

 

Tubey gives a sharp nod, and a moment later, the radar disappears, and instead, a square-jawed Romulan male takes its place.

 

“You have been deemed a threat to the Romulan border,” he intones flatly. “You will return to Federation space post-haste, or be annihilated.”

 

“I am answering a summons,” Peter says evenly, his face a touch too stony to be considered blank. “I am Peter Kirk, Ward of Ambassador Sarek. I have come to ensure his safe return to Federation space.”

 

The Romulan arches an unimpressed eyebrow, mouth curving up into a malicious smile.

 

“The Federation claims to have no knowledge of Ambassador Sarek’s whereabouts or private projects,” he says. “An obvious lie, but an expected one. I do, however, find it interesting that, rather than mount a proper rescue, they send a smuggling ship full of Human children, instead.” He hums, almost thoughtful. “It makes me think I should perhaps reassess the value of the Ambassador.”

 

“Reassess on your own time,” Peter says sharply. “I’ve no time for the illogical thoughts of a brain-dead son of an _amton’wi-kha nvaihr_ _.“_

 

David thanks the Man in the Sky that he’s not visible on the viewscreen, because his head whips around so fast his curls slap him in the face. He’s never heard Peter sound so cold, so utterly unbending. Peter’s always been the calm one, out of all of them, his words soft and measured and never more than a note beyond serene. Also, Romulan? Peter speaks _ Romulan?  _ Since when?  _ Saavik  _ doesn’t speak Romulan, and she’s got ridges and a taste for dark meat written across half her DNA.

 

“My, my, what harsh words from an untried Terran,” the Romulan says, covering his smile with a shovel-sized hand. “But I will let it pass. Go, child, and leave the dealings of men between men. This is between the Federation and the Romulan Star Empire, not a half-grown boy playing Vulcan.”

 

Peter’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t have anymore sharp words. Instead, he takes a deep, steadying breath.

 

“Logic tells me I will not win this altercation,” he says. “We are outgunned and outmanned. But make no mistake: we shall have the Ambassador returned to us before the next time your ship’s clock resets.”

 

The Romulan Commander throws back his head with a laugh.

 

“We will destroy you,” he says conversationally. “But if it’s of any consolation, we will allow you the dignity of the first attack.”

 

“That’s all we’ll need, thank you,” Peter says crisply, finger finding the buttons on his armrest. “ _ Shu Fu _ , out.”

 

The Romulan’s face blinks out of view, and Peter lets out a huff, shoulders slumping for just a moment before straightening again.

 

“Okay. Ideas?”

 

“Go back,” Jo says immediately.

 

“Contact the _ Enterprise,” _ David says not a heartbeat later.

 

“Contact the Federation,” Saavik says, frowning at Peter. “We are a ship full of the children of very important Starfleet officers. It would not look good if they left us to die.”

 

“I do not think the Federation would be too worried about press at the moment,” Connor says, crossing his arms as he props his hip against the nearest console. “We are in the Neutral Zone, on a Klingon ship. We are not their problem.”

 

“Peter!” Demora says, looking over her shoulder from where she’s leaning over a console. “The Romulan ship is dropping its shields!”

 

“What? _ Why?”  _ David demands, moving to peer over Demora’s shoulder.

 

“He gave us the dignity of the first attack,” Connor says, an odd look crossing his face.

 

“He’s arrogant,” Tubey agrees. “He doesn’t think our ship could do any real damage.”

 

“He’s right,” Jo says. “This ship is built for stealth and maneuverability, not fighting a _ warship. _ The extent of the guns on this thing is the fucking _ rail,  _ which is mounted on the _ bottom  _ of the ship, and is only effective when our shields are _ down!” _

 

“We’re not going to shoot them,” Peter says flatly. “We’re going to board them.”

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

“A stealth attack, then?” Saavik says after a moment. “Logical, except we do not know the layout of the ship. Provided we have some sort of—”

 

“Jo, do you happen to have the blueprints of a typical Romulan Warbird?” Peter asks, looking at his cousin.

 

Jo blinks.

 

“What? No! Well— technically, yes— but Pete, this is a stupid plan,” she says, crossing her arms. “We’re not soldiers. Romulans are _ vicious _ , and I doubt they’ll care if we’re civilians. The  _ Shu Fu _ won’t be able to take it if they figure out we’re trying to steal back their prisoner.”

 

“I could go,” Saavik pipes up. “I am trained in several Vulcan fighting styles, as well as Human martial arts.”

 

“Me too,” David says quickly.

 

Saavik shakes her head.

 

“No, it would be better for you to remain onboard, in case I lose contact with the ship’s comms,” she says. “They will likely begin jamming the signals once they realize they have been boarded.”

 

“Besides, aren’t you a pacifist, David?” Tubey asks, arching an eyebrow at him before turning to Peter. “I’ll go, too. Obviously.”

 

“No, I will go,” Connor says. “You are too reckless to be sent on a mission like this.”

 

“I’d kill them all,” Tubey says.

 

“Yes, and get yourself killed in the process.” Connor looks up. “I will go.”

 

“Connor, you know I am a better fighter than you—”

 

“Guys,” David says slowly, looking around. “Where’s Demora?”

 

Tubey’s console beeps.

 

“Incoming call,” she says, frowning at her console.

 

“Onscreen,” Peter says after a moment.

 

The image flickers into view, and it’s Demora. Of course it’s Demora.

 

“Hey, guys,” she hisses, leaning into the camera. It’s at an odd angle, pressed to her chest where she’s crouched out of sight. “I made an executive decision.”

 

“Demora,” Peter says, and there’s warning in his voice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Saving Uncle Sarek, obviously. You guys were wasting time.” The camera shudders and flips before settling again, giving them full view of what looks to be a cargo bay. “I took one of those eyeglass things, don’t worry— you guys can see everything I see.”

 

“Oh, shit, Sulu’s gonna kill me,” Jo whispers, biting the knuckle of her thumb as she stares with wide eyes up at the screen.

 

“Demora, we’re beaming you up now,” Peter says, his glare enough to send Connor hopping towards the console controlling the transporter. “Demora—”

 

“Don’t worry, I’m armed,” she says. “By the way, David? I borrowed your lightsaber.”

 

“This is the stupidest thing you have ever done,” Tubey informs her, moving to help her brother. “Stay still so I can locate you.”

 

“What? No!” Demora starts to move towards the nearest door. “I’m the best person for the job! Small, quick, good with a sword—”

 

“You are not a hobbit, and this is not Tolkien,” Peter says flatly. “You could _ die.” _

 

“I’m not going to, though, because you’re going to open up the blueprints Jo has saved somewhere and figure out a way to get to where they’re keeping Uncle Sarek,” Demora says.  _ “Then  _ you’re going to locate us, beam us out, and— fuck!”

 

An alarm starts to blare overhead on her end of the comm. The shit, as they say on Earth, has officially hit the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romulan translation: promiscuous woman.


	7. Chapter 7

“Demora, run!” Peter orders. “Do not let them find you! Jo, get those fucking blueprints!”

 

Jo scrambles— they all scramble, each of them finding a console as Jo thrusts a PADD into Peter’s waiting hands.

 

“Connor, have you got a lock on Demora’s position?”

 

“I do, but—”

 

“They’ve raised shields,” Tubey says, hands darting across the keys. “We can’t beam her out.”

 

Peter curses.

 

“I am putting the map onscreen,” he says. “Overlay her position.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Tubey says, and a moment later, a small red dot comes to life on a black and green map in the corner of the screen.

 

“Guys, where do I go?” Demora asks, camera twisting dizzily from side to side. “Guys—”

 

“Shut up, Demora,” Peter orders. “Make a left. There is a secondary storage facility down the hall, on the right. You can hide there.”

 

Demora turns, half-blind with panic, and nearly runs face first into a Romulan chest.

 

“Demora, oh, fuck, Demo, _ run _ !”

 

That’s David’s voice crackling in her ear, unusually high-pitched, but rather than do the rational thing and, y’know, listen, her hand finds the hilt of the lightsaber, her thumb brushing over the overly-sensitive trigger that David had warned her about during his explanation.

 

The blade erupts from the hilt, the violet glow following behind titanium only a second later, the heat so intense it burns away her shirt and singes her side as it bursts from where its hooked to her belt and through the Romulan’s chest.

 

The Romulan looks down, pure surprise coloring his features as her stares down at the humming lightsaber jutting out of his sternum. After a moment, his knees buckle, forcing his body in two when Demora forgets to pull the saber free.

 

He hits the ground with a wet slap. The alarms are still screaming, but Demora can’t hear the noise anyway, hyper focused instead on the Romulan— the _ person—  _ that she just… murdered? Is murdered the word she should use in this context?

 

“...mora? Demora, can you still hear me?”

 

Peter’s voice filters through, gentle and sharp all at once.

 

“Demora?”

 

“I’m here,” she says, voice cracking. She clears her throat and tries again. “I’m here, Peter.”

 

“Thank God. Are you hurt?”

 

Demora stretches experimentally, wincing when the movement pulls at the burn on her side.

 

“Nothing life-threatening,” she says. “Little burn, that’s all.”

 

She hears Jo swear in the background, hears David muttering about overheating.

 

“Okay,” Peter says, tone even. “Okay, we can fix that, no problem. But first, we have to get you off that ship, okay? We need you to cut the power to the shields.”

 

It takes a second for Demora’s brain to catch up with what he’s saying, but the moment it does, she feels her face twist into  snarl.

 

“No,” she says flatly. “I’m here already. I’m going to find Uncle Sarek.”

 

“We could at least get you backup,” Tubey says. “Saavik or I could come— you will not be able to carry Uncle Sarek on your own.”

 

Which, good point.

 

“Okay.” Demora takes a deep breath, shifting her grip on the lightsaber. “Besides taking the bridge, how else could I cut out the shields?”

 

“Saavik?” Peter asks.

 

“There’s a power relay on the other side of the ship,” she says, looking up from her console. A red line appears on the map, starting at Demora’s position and ending a few floors down. “If she can do enough damage, then the backup generator will kick in. It only covers life support, so shields should drop.”

 

“They know you’re aboard,” Tubey says, fingers jammed against her earwhig. “I hacked their comms— six heading your way, armed with disruptors.”

 

“You will meet resistance, Demo,” Connor says. “Be prepared for a fight.”

 

“Follow the corridor down to the end, then make a right,” Peter says. “You’ll make the third left after that.”

 

“Since when can you both hack Romulan tech and understand Romulan, Tubes?” Demora asks, raising her lightsaber as she takes a deep, steadying breath and starts moving.

 

“Since Aunt Winnie stopped by and taught me,” Tubey says.

 

“Oh, you too?” David asks, tone far too casual for the current situation.

 

“Not the time, guys,” Peter says. “Demora, you will be fine. You have training.”

 

_ Not with a _ lightsaber, Demora definitely doesn’t say but thinks very hard.

 

“I am going to the bathroom,” Connor says suddenly. “To vomit. I will return.”

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

“That was a lie,” Tubey says abruptly. “I will go after him. Demora, do me a favor and stay alive while I am gone?”

 

“I’ll do my best,” Demora promises, twitching when she hears footsteps. The image of that Romulan’s brain, half-crisped as it slides out of his split skull, flashes through her mind, but she grits her teeth and raises her saber. She’s in it, now.

 

She’s not going to fucking cry over it.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Incoming call from the _ Shu Fu,  _ Captain,” Uhura says, brow furrowing.

 

Immediately, the tension in the room skyrockets, mostly because Bones? Bones has had the good luck of meandering up to the bridge not ten minutes before.

 

“She’s calling the bridge,” he mutters, reaching for Jim’s arm to grip and squeeze. “It’s serious, if she’s calling the bridge.”

 

“Onscreen,” Jim orders.

 

The screen flickers, and a pale, blank face appears.

 

Jim blinks.

 

“Connor?”

 

“Brother,” Connor says, inclining his head. “Mother said we were to call you if the situation got out of hand.”

 

“Situation? What situation?”

 

“I am sending you our coordinates now,” Connor continues, ignoring him. “When you are closer, call the bridge, please— it will be better if Peter explains. Thank you.”

 

“Wait, Connor, what—”

 

But it’s too late. Connor disconnects, and instead, coordinates flash up on the screen.

 

“Connor’s on the _ Shu Fu,”  _ Chekov says slowly. “That means Tubey is on the _ Shu Fu,  _ which means—”

 

“Demora’s on the _ Shu Fu,”  _ Sulu says, resigned.

 

“Peter’s there, too,” Jim says. “Which means David and Saavik probably are in on whatever’s going on. David doesn’t just let his cousin do stupid shit alone.”

 

Chekov sighs.

 

“I am setting coordinates, sir,” he says, already moving.

 

“Think Jo knows they’re on her ship this time around?” Jim asks, looking up at Bones.

 

“If she does, then they’re really in shit,” Bones says, his grip cutting off blood circulation. “So I’m not sure I want to think too hard about that.”

 

Yeah, Jim thinks. He doesn’t want to think too hard about it, either.

 

Either way, they’re about to find out.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“You called Jim?”

 

“I called Jim.”

 

Tubey sighs.

 

“We are trying to avoid an intergalactic incident, you know,” she says almost conversationally. “Involving Starfleet’s crown jewel is not going to help.”

 

“It was necessary.”

 

“That’s what I am worried about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When children willingly ask their parents to get them out of something, you know that shit is bad.


	8. Chapter 8

Demora would like to panic, Peter thinks, but she won’t allow herself to. There’s too much at stake to scream or cry, so instead she goes stone silent on her end of the comm, keeping her footsteps light as she makes her way down into the belly of the ship.

 

She meets three more Romulan patrols over the course of the next twenty minutes. She cuts each pair down without hesitation, which only makes him worry. She’s only fifteen. She shouldn’t be alone on that ship.

  
“Incoming call,” Tubey says from her comm, she and Connor having returned from wherever they’d gone.

 

“From the Romulans?”

 

Tubey shakes her head, expression unusually grim.

 

“Worse,” she says. “I am putting it through, now.”

 

There’s a pause, and then, in the top right corner of the viewscreen, a classic case of blond-hair-blue-eyed Kirk appears on screen.

 

“Pete, buddy, how are you?” Uncle Jim says, his smile too bright. “You’re looking good. How’s the family?”

 

“Um.”

 

“No need to answer that— I can just ask them myself, seeing as everybody is currently onboard with you. In the Romulan Neutral Zone.” Jim’s smile becomes even more fixed. “What’cha doin’ out there, bud?”

 

Peter lifts his chin. Better to explain now, he thinks, before everything explodes in his face.

 

“We are actively working to retrieve Uncle Sarek,” he says. “Romulans have taken him.”

 

Jim’s smile drops immediately, his brow furrowing.

 

“How do you know?” he asks as a blue shirt moves to stand beside him. “Why weren’t we informed?”

 

“Uncle Sarek’s mission was classified,” Peter says. “The Federation denies all knowledge of it.”

 

Jim curses.

 

“We can’t get involved,” Bones says from somewhere off screen. “The Romulan Neutral Zone—”

 

“Peter,” Spock asks, leaning down to peer into the camera. “You did not contact me.”

 

Peter winces.

 

“It is a delicate situation,” he says. “I was unsure how you would react.”

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

“Peter,” Jim says slowly. “What happened?”

 

Well… they’ll find out eventually.

 

“I received a finger in the mail,” he says. “At our home address.”

 

Another beat of silence.

 

“Captain, I must excuse my—”

 

“You’re excused, Mr. Spock,” Jim says without looking up. “Tell me the situation, Peter.”

 

Peter glances over at Tubey. She meets his gaze and gives a single, sharp shake of her head. He looks back at his uncle.

 

“We managed to get Tubey aboard the Romulan vessel,” he says, you know, like a liar. “Connor is directing her to a power relay that will force the Romulans to drop shields long enough for her to locate Uncle Sarek and have us beam them both out. As soon as we have them, we will be returning to Federation space.”

 

Tubey raises her hand, pointing to her console silently. After a moment, David wanders over, peering at her console before looking back to Peter.

 

“We’ve got another incoming call,” he says. “But we can’t keep more than two lines of communication going at once.”

 

Peter bites his lip.

 

“We must disconnect,” he tells Jim. “We cannot lose Tubey. I will call back if there is any change.”

 

“Wait, Peter—”

 

He disconnects the call. A moment later, there’s another face on screen.

 

“Drop your shields,” Spock says flatly, eyes darting from where the comm appears to be propped up on a console and the console itself.

 

“What?”

 

“I am coming aboard to aid you. Drop your shields.”

 

Peter blinks.

 

“Uncle Spock, this is not a good idea,” he says. “Starfleet—”

 

“Starfleet has nothing to do with this,” Spock says, pausing to strip off his blue uniform shirt like it’s an afterthought. “My father is one of the few remaining elders of the Vulcan people. He can not be allowed to die at the hands of the Romulans. So, I say again: Drop. Your.  _ Fucking.  _ Shields.”

 

Silence reigns. No one— not Peter, not David, not any of them— have ever heard a Vulcan swear. Have ever heard Spock swear, actually. It just one of those things that doesn’t happen, like gravity just turning off, or coming out of your twenties without severe post-traumatic stress disorder.

 

“I’m bringing down the shields,” Jo says abruptly. “Fifteen seconds. Will that be enough, Spock?”

 

“Plenty,” Spock says shortly. “On my count. Three, two—”

 

The call disconnects as he’s beamed away from the _ Enterprise.  _ Jo’s on her feet and away from her console in a moment, long coat flapping behind her as she goes to collect their uncle from the transporter room.

 

Peter just lied and said Tubey was on the Romulan ship.

 

Hopefully, his brother-uncle can keep a secret.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Spock takes stock of the situation in a series of snapshots. The crew, as they are— Connor sitting in as navigator, David fluttering behind Peter’s chair, Saavik just a step behind him with grease smeared across one cheek, Tubey seated at the Communications console.

 

Spock turns to Peter as Jo returns to the extra console.

 

“Tubey is clearly not on the Romulan ship,” he says.

 

Peter doesn’t quite manage to hide his flinch.

 

“No,” he says. “But I did not want to inform the bridge at large that Demora slipped away before we realized what she was doing.”

 

Spock nods once. Sulu would have warped directly into the Neutral Zone if he heard his only daughter was sitting on an enemy ship.

 

“We will keep it to ourselves,” he says. “Demora, what is your status?”

 

“Alive,” she says shortly, the first word she’s said since they began directing her. “I’m almost to the relay.”

 

“Romulan ships build their cells with transports in mind,” Spock says, folding his arms as he stares at the map onscreen. “You are not strong enough to move my father far enough away to be beamed out. I will join you on the ship when the shields drop.”

 

“Oh, thank— oh, God,” David whispers. Spock ignores him, however, because there is movement on the screen, followed by a furious shriek as Demora strikes at yet another Romulan patrol, slicing one man cleanly in two before beheading the other.

 

“They’re fucking everywhere,” she hisses unhappily. “The battery’s dying already, look at this!”

 

She holds up something that is clearly a lightsaber, save for the sharpened rod of enhanced titanium that flickers in and out of view.

 

“I said the battery wasn’t up to snuff!” David says, words high-pitched and nervous. “I _ told you  _ it’s been giving me trouble!”

 

Demora lets out a huff.

 

“Guess I’ll just have to get messy,” she says. “Fuck.”

 

“Save the battery while you can,” Saavik advises. “The relay will need sufficient damage for our plan to work.”

 

The camera jerks as Demora nods.

 

“Don’t worry,” she says as the laser of her weapon cuts out completely. “I can handle it.”

 

Spock notes the steel in her voice— wondering, quite suddenly, how the alpha crew somehow managed to produce only uniquely strong-willed children. He doesn’t think he was half so troublesome as these children are turning out to be.

 

A question to ponder later, perhaps.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s been twenty minutes and Peter hasn’t called back yet, which means that either shit has hit the fan or he’s still dealing with the Romulans. Because who else would call right now?

 

Either way, Jim needs to find Spock. The things that are leaking through the bond are less than good, and Jim needs to calm him down so that Spock can calm Jim down and they both can properly think.

 

“Computer, find Spock,” he says, already aiming for the officer’s deck.

 

There’s a pause, and then, the computer beeps.

 

“Commander Spock is not aboard the _ Enterprise.” _

 

Jim stops.

 

“Computer,” he says, words measured and calm. “Please check again.”

 

There’s a pause.

 

“Commander Spock is not aboard the _ Enterprise.” _

 

Jim’s eyebrow twitches. An ensign with the unfortunate luck of needing to use that particular hallway backs away slowly, sliding into a Jeffries Tube instead.

 

“Computer, give me the last location of Commander Spock before he disappeared off the ship.”

 

“Commander Spock was last recorded entering the transporter room.”

 

Goddammit.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Incoming from the Enterprise,” Tubey calls.

 

“That would be Jim.” Spock moves to stand behind Peter’s chair. “Take it.”

 

“Your funeral,” Peter murmurs, nodding to Tubey.

 

The vein in Jim’s temple is pulsing when he appears onscreen, which is just… not good.

 

“Spock,” he starts, voice deceptively light. “Mind explaining why you’re hanging out with the kids on the _ Shu Fu _ instead of helping me figure out a way to avoid a diplomatic incident that’ll almost definitely lead to a costly war on all sides  _ without _ losing the entire next generation of Alpha crew and also your father?”

 

Spock arches an eyebrow.

 

“I have mutinied,” he informs Jim. “It was the best way.”

 

“Elaborate.”

 

Peter winces. Oh, this is really bad. His uncle only starts talking like his bondmate when he’s really, really angry. At least, that’s what Uncle Bones says. Peter’s never had the misfortune to hear it before.

 

“Of course. Our niece is not strong enough to move my father to a suitable location to be beamed aboard the ship. Instead, she has chosen to cut the power, forcing the Romulans to drop shields lest they lose life support. I will beam aboard, secure my father, then return with them both to the Shu Fu.”

 

“Then we’re going to hightail it out of the Neutral Zone,” Jo adds sharply, crouching by Peter’s elbow so she can fit into frame. “Right to you guys, promise.”

 

“Oh, well, if that’s all.” Jim gives them a bright smile. “If you’re not back in half an hour, Spock, I’m coming after you. I hope you know that.”

 

Peter looks up at Spock, who’s holding himself unusually stiffly.

 

Spock gives a single nod.

 

“Understood, James.” He reaches over to Peter’s controls, ending the call.

 

There’s a beat of silence. Then, David whistles.

 

“You’re in the doghouse, aren’t you, Spock?” he asks.

 

Spock inclines his head.

 

“He will, as you say, ‘get over it.’” He focuses on the viewscreen. “Demora is getting close to the power relay. We should prepare for transport.”

 

Peter nods.

 

“David, give him a taser, at least,” he says. “Jo, you’re on transport duty.”

 

“Got it.”

 

“Sure thing, Pete.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“The power relay should be about ten feet up, to your right,” Connor murmurs in Demora’s ear. “You’ll have to cut through the wall, first.”

 

Demora nods, flicking the button on the lightsaber as she raises it to strike.

 

Metal hisses as it melts too quickly under the edge of her lightsaber, falling to the floor in chunks as she slices through the wall.

 

“Which wires?” she asks, staring into the abyss lit only by the dull glow of her weapon.

 

“Jo’s specs are not that detailed,” Connor crackles back. “Cut them all and hope for the best.”

 

“That’s terrible advice, Connor—”

 

Too late, Demora thinks as she stabs through the thickest tangle of wires and pulls up. The response is immediate, the entire hall going dark in a burst of sparks that sting across Demora’s face. She hisses, jumping back with her saber still in hand.

 

“I’m getting a lot of burns,” she says, flinching when she reaches up to touch her cheek with careful fingers.

 

“That is because you were aiding Saavik in the engine room,” Tubey says, like a liar. “Jo has similar burns on her face.”

 

“Oh. Okay.”

 

“Shields are coming down,” Connor says. “Spock will be beaming to your location. Together you will make your way to the brig, three floors below.”

 

“Beaming in three,” Jo says. “Two, one…”

 

The space beside her erupts into the familiar light of a transporter, and the silhouette of her uncle, taser at the ready, forms before her very eyes.

 

“Jo,” Spock says crisply. “Is there a night vision feature to these glasses?”

 

“Yeah, third button on the left, going front to back.”

 

Spock reaches out, fingers finding the side of Demora’s goggles, and a moment later, the world is bathed in green. His hand retracts, eyes glowing strangely from under his bangs.

 

“It seems your saber has lost power,” he remarks. “Will you be able to use it despite this?”

 

Demora looks down at her lightsaber, fingers tightening around the grip.

 

“I’ll manage,” she says.

 

Spock nods once.

 

“Where do we go?” he asks.

 

“There is something similar to a Jeffries tube fifteen steps to your right,” Peter says. “You can take that down to the correct floor.”

 

“Very well.” Spock looks at Demora. “We should go.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Romulans, it seems, have good vision despite the dark. They don’t bother to turn the lights back on during the painfully slow descent down the cramped little service tunnel, though it seems like whatever guard there might have already been posted around the brig was tripled.

 

“I count fifty-four men,” Spock says when he peers around the corner of their cramped hiding spot. “We will need a distraction.”

 

“Okay.” Demora frowns. “What sort of distraction?”

 

“Romulans, like Vulcans, have particularly sensitive hearing,” he says. “An explosion, perhaps, but that would blind us both.”

 

Night vision, right. Even without that, though, the halls are too dark for an explosion not to fuck up Demora’s eyes, adjusted to the strange, artificial green of the world.

 

“So we need something loud,” she murmurs. “But invisible… Got it.”

 

She imagines more than sees her uncle’s raised eyebrow.

 

“Tubey,” she says. “You’ve got access to their comms, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How about the shipwide ones?”

 

“... I have access to all their communications,” Tubey says. “Why?”

 

“Go into my room,” Demora says slowly. “And find my PADD. Sync it to the Shu Fu, and go to my workout playlist.”

 

“You mean to play music as a distraction,” Spock realizes.

 

Demora shrugs.

 

“It worked for Uncle Jim, it can work for me,” she says. “If I move fast enough, I can probably cut down enough of them to get to Uncle Sarek.”

 

“... That may not be wise,” Spock says.

 

“Who said anything about wise? It’s necessary.”

 

“PADD is synced,” Tubey says, cutting off Spock’s response. “Anything in particular you’d like to play?”

 

Demora takes a deep breath, sidling carefully around her uncle before raising her lightsaber. She feels shaky, a little bit like she’s about to cry, so instead, she forces herself to smile.

 

“Play me something _ badass.” _

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

[Guitars shriek to life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fUyul2Hg18) as Demora bursts into the hallway with a yowl, weapon raised as she hacks through the two nearest Romulans, their hands clasped over their ears against the force of the noise. Spock would be in a similar state, except for the fact that, well, Spock has knows Jim for most of his life, and Jim likes to crank it up when he’s doing anything even remotely close to tedious, like homework and later, paperwork. He’s gotten used to his ears screaming.

 

As it happens, he doesn’t really have to do much except follow Demora, taser at the ready in case any of her fallen opponents turn out to be more than slightly alive.

 

(There aren’t any. Even without the laser component of her lightsaber, Demora has nearly a decade’s worth of fencing at her back, as well as time well-spent in the Pike family gym in the basement. Her movements are economical and strong, each stroke cutting through flesh and bone like its butter and not dense alien flesh. Spock would normally argue, but, well, Peter said something about fingers, so he’s not exactly in a position to argue for pacifism, at the moment.)

 

It doesn’t take a minute before they’re alone in the corridor, Demora’s chest heaving as she drops her guard. Her clothes, skin, and hair splattered with green blood, her weapon shining oddly in the half-light of the emergency lanterns that line the walls.

 

“You will have to cut through the door,” Peter’s voice crackles into their ears. “The lock is a biometric, with a killswitch should the wrong person touch the door.”

 

Demora grimaces, straightening slowly.

 

“That’ll kill what’s left of the battery, I think,” she says, voice hollow and distant as the song winds down to its end. “How far will we need to go to get Uncle Sarek and Uncle Spock within beaming range?”

 

There’s a pause.

 

“Six decks up, at least,” Peter says after a moment. “Ten to be certain.”

 

“That will land us on the bridge,” Spock says as Demora flicks her lightsaber on.

 

“Don’t worry about it, Uncle Spock,” she says, raising her sword high above her head. “I can handle it.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Sarek is uncertain of what is happening. There is a sudden burst of light and the smell of hot metal, and suddenly, his son is there, along with a green-stained, wild-eyed Demora. He has lost a good amount of blood, these last few days, and his control is slipping. He cannot help the hiss of pain that accompanies Spock’s gentle fingers against his crudely wrapped, wounded fist.

 

“Three,” Spock hisses, more to himself than to Sarek or Demora. His eyes have never looked so Human, filled with rage as they are. If Sarek were not a Vulcan and also not in incredible agony, he would be touched.

 

Demora growls, which is unlike her, and moves to kneel at Sarek’s side.

 

“We’re getting you out of here,” she says. “Peter’s waiting for us on the Shu Fu, and the Enterprise is just outside the Neutral Zone. We’re going to make it, okay, Uncle Sarek?”

 

Sarek can’t find the energy in himself to speak, so instead he nods, letting himself fall limply against his son as Spock drags him to his feet, one hand snaking around his waist while the other one throws Sarek’s uninjured arm over his shoulders. He can walk, he can— just not very far without help.

 

“To the bridge, then,” Demora says. “Tubey, do me a favor and steal every fucking file this floating piece of _ gomi  _ has in its databanks.”

 

Even half-dead, Sarek understands the implications of the venom in her tone as she speaks into a comm he can’t see. The Romulans are secretive— they’d hate the idea of any of their intel falling into the hands of a few half-baked Humans. In fact, they’d likely take it as a _ very  _ personal insult.

 

Good.

 

Judging by the vicious grin that stretches across Demora’s face, whatever reply she gets pleases her. She turns back to Spock and Sarek.

 

“Let’s go,” she says. “Stay behind me.”

 

Which is silly of her to say, really. She’s only fifteen. If anything, Spock should be leading the charge, or even one of the older children. But then, he realizes dimly as they begin to move, Demora is holding a sword, and the green-almost-olive color splashed across her skin? That’s not from an issue in the pipes or a fight in the arboretum. That’s… that’s definitely blood.

 

This may prove to be an issue, later down the line.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Peter is not panicking. Even as he watches the little dots representing Demora and Spock _ crawl  _ across the schematics thrown up on the screen, even though he watches Demora tear through Romulans like paper dolls, even though he sees through Demora’s headset exactly how terrible his uncle looks, he does not panic.

 

The mission is almost over. All that needs to happen is for his away team to get back on his ship, and they can hightail it out of this mess of mines and fallen spacecrafts back to Federation space.

 

And then, an alarm goes off.

 

“They are charging their weapons,” Connor says from his console. “It looks like they have not taken Tubey’s snooping well.”

 

“We’re not prepared for a fucking gunfight,” Jo says, voice cracking with panic. “Peter, our shields will be shot to shit in seconds, we’ve gotta get out of here!”

 

“They’re not clear yet,” Peter says, lips pursed as he watches the dot move ever-closer to its goal. “We can’t move until they’re aboard.”

 

“They’re preparing to fire,” Connor says.

 

“Oh, God, of _ God—” _

 

“They’re firing—”

 

The entire ship rocks with the force of the blow, throwing Peter from his seat along with the others. Jo’s scream is cut off rather abruptly, and when Peter turns to look, he sees her laid out limply across the floor of the bridge. Either she hit her head, or she fainted.

 

… That might be for the better.

 

“Shields at sixty-eight percent,” David says, scrambling back up to his console. “Fuck, we can’t take another hit like that.”

 

“We need to fire back,” Tubey says. “Their shields are still down— if we take advantage—”

 

“We have nothing to fire,” Peter says flatly, eyes returning to the screen. “We can only wait.”

 

“Waiting is not a good idea,” Saavik says, rubbing grease from her hands as she strides onto the bridge. “The engines will not last us to the Neutral Zone if we take anymore damage— they are far too delicate as is. Another major hit will kill them completely.”

 

Peter is not panicking. Peter is  _ not  _ panicking. Peter is not—

 

“Wait,” David says suddenly, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ve got an idea. Saavik?”

 

“Got it,” she says immediately, straightening her shoulders.

 

“How Kirkish?” Tubey asks, not looking up from her screen.

 

“On a scale of zero to Jim? Spock. But it’s okay, though— this can work. This can definitely work.”

 

Peter takes a deep, steadying breath.

 

“Whatever it is, do it,” he says. “Saavik, help him. Demora?”

 

“Yeah, Peter?”

 

“Move your ass.”

 

“Aye-aye, Captain.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> gomi: trash (Japanese) 
> 
> Also, not so fun housekeeping stuff here. Hobbit and Freyja have an action packed weekend full of activities planned. So the next update will not be coming until Monday, and then we will return to our regularly scheduled every-other-day posting!


	11. Chapter 11

“David, how is this going to work?”

 

David hardly looks up from where he’s bolting the Series XI Marcus Plasma Cannon to the cargo bay floor, hair pushed out of his face with the help of a somewhat skeevy-looking scarf Saavik had found tied to a pole in their room. In a typical, non-lethal situation, he would be disgusted by the lack of safety precautions, but considering the situation, he’s agreed that safety goggles are probably not the most important thing to his continued health right now.

 

“Simple,” David says over the growl of the drill in his hands. “We turn the ship, flip its kilt, and blast the shit out of the Romulan ship. Simple. Effective.”

 

Saavik takes a moment to translate that in her head.

 

“You mean to turn the ship, open the cargo bay doors, aim for the Romulan ship using only manual controls, destroy the ship, close the cargo doors again, and run?” She says. “There are several problems with this plan.”

 

“If you please.”

 

Saavik takes a deep breath.

 

“We do not have any experience piloting.”

 

“Demora’s been playing in the Starfleet flight sims since she could see over the console. She can handle it once she gets back. Next.”

 

“Considering the age and wear on this ship, opening the cargo bay doors may depressurize the entire ship, not just this section. Also, because the cannon is not properly connected to the ship controls, someone— you— will have to remain in the depressurized cargo bay in order to fire the cannon.”

 

“Everyone will put on space suits just in case, as will I, obviously.” David reaches for another bolt, this one thicker than his thumb. “As the suits are connected to ship controls— I checked while you were carrying the cannon out— that also solves the problem of trying to manually fire a cannon at another spaceship. All the calculations can be done by the computer and the needed trajectory for a direct hit sent directly to my visor.”

 

Saavik nods thoughtfully.

 

“And the recoil?”

 

David pauses, just for a moment.

 

“There are a couple of scenarios,” he says. “Worst case scenario, the cannon breaks free of its moors, either crushing me against the far wall of the cargo bay or launching me into space. Mag boots and a few ties will handle the launching into space thing. If it knocks me back…” David trails off, sitting up on his heels to meet Saavik’s eyes.

 

“The suit should protect me from the worst of it, but I’ll probably come out of it with a couple of broken ribs,” he admits. “Hopefully though, the moors will hold.”

 

“This is a terrible plan,” Saavik says flatly, turning on her heel. “I will go find something suitable to tie you down.”

 

“Love you, babe!” David calls after her, giving her his best smile.

 

She flips him off, not looking back as she stalks out of the cargo bay.

 

“You complete me!”

 

She doesn’t even look back. Yeah, he kinda deserves it.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Demora has always been an eavesdropper, but even without that, it isn’t hard to figure out that shit’s going down beyond her and her uncles running around a Romulan ship. The Romulans are firing, and the _ Shu Fu  _ is helpless.

 

“What’s David’s plan?” she asks as they move closer and closer to the tenth deck.

 

“Cannons,” Peter says. “In the cargo bay. We might not have the time, though— they are charging disruptors for a second round of attack.”

 

“What are the estimates for how long that’s going to take?”

 

“They are cutting power to the lower decks in order to power their weapons,” Peter says. “It is slow-going, but not slow enough. It will be another fifteen minutes, at best— but David may need more time than that, in order to charge the cannon.”

 

“Uh-huh. And… where are the main controls for the weapons?”

 

“On the bridge. Romulans like to keep a close eye on things, it seems.”

 

Demora nods thoughtfully, eyeing her lightsaber.

 

“I can give you more time,” she says. “If you need it.”

 

“I do not think it would be wise—”

 

“Don’t get emotional on me now, Pete,” Demora says. “Logically, if I can give you more time, I should do it. Right?”

 

There’s a long pause.

 

“Yes.”

 

“This is not a good plan,” Spock says. “If I am correct in my assumptions, Demora—”

 

“You’re going to just beam up Uncle Spock and Uncle Sarek, Peter,” Demora interrupts, not looking at her uncle. “And leave me behind. I’m going to go up to the bridge, neutralize the threat, and then you’ll beam me aboard.”

 

“Demo, your father will cut me into pieces and scatter me to the four corners of the galaxy if I knowingly leave you alone on an enemy ship.”

 

“He will not find out,” Tubey says. “It is our only option, Peter.”

 

Demora waits. She’s right, she knows she’s right, and so does Peter. She also knows he’ll agree with her even if he doesn’t want to, even though he knows he probably shouldn’t, because Tubey agreed it’s their best bet. 

 

Peter usually doesn’t argue with Tubey when she decides to throw in her two cents.

 

“Fine,” he says, sighing. “You are nearly there, anyway. I will give you ten minutes, then beam you out. If you cannot accomplish your goal in that time, we will find another way. You know a few evasive maneuvers, correct?”

 

“Not enough to get us out of this.”

 

“We shall see.” Peter sighs again. “Do not get yourself killed, Demora.”

 

“I’m not an idiot, Captain.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


The light is almost blinding when Sarek and Spock are beamed away from her, but Demora pays it no mind, adjusting her eyeglass before hurrying onwards. Tubey is whispering directions in her ear, and a timer has appeared in the corner of her vision. It takes two minutes to get to the bridge through the walls— wow, she’s really starting to take after Uncle Jim— leaving her eight minutes to stop the Romulans from firing again.

 

It’s not easy.

 

There’s a lot of shouting, a lot of sudden, loose, sparking wires and broken glass as she swings wildly, the beginnings of exhaustion making her sloppy. She’s lucky, she supposes, when she realizes that the Romulans on the bridge don’t carry disruptors, only long, wicked blades of strange, greenish metal that dampens the clang of her lightsaber’s metal core whenever they manage to block her blows.

 

The viewscreen goes out when she rams a Romulan with her shoulder against the delicate glass, the bridge only getting darker when the neutral blue of the screen’s sleep mode abruptly going out. She doesn’t pause at the sudden darkness, guessing correctly where her opponent now lays crumpled and running him through.

 

There’s only one left, now, a woman, dressed better than the Commander— an Admiral, possibly. She’s drawn her blade, her eyes glowing slightly in the dark as she watches Demora straighten from her kill, lightsaber high above her head in a defensive position.

 

“You are talented,” she says, voice steady. “If I had ten men with your skills, I could conquer the Empire for myself.”

 

“Careful, now,” Demora says, her voice raw. “They’re probably recording.”

 

“I have no doubt.” The Admiral kicks away the severed arm of one of her men, clearing the space in front of her. “But it means very little. I was meant to die here.”

 

“... Suicide mission?”

 

The Admiral’s teeth flash as she smiles.

 

“The loss of Ambassador Sarek would not go unpunished by the Federation, or by his sons.” She cocks her head. “Humans have a lust for vengeance like no other species, as you’ve demonstrated today, and his sons are Human and half-Human, by turn.”

 

Demora doesn’t want to hear this.

 

“I’m going to kill you now,” she says. “And no one will remember you.”

 

“Nonsense.” The Admiral raises her weapon.  _ “You  _ will remember me.”

 

Demora lets out a shriek, charging at the Admiral. Her opponent is bigger than her, more experienced, but she’s old, too, older than Uncle Sarek, even, and for all that she’s fast, she’s not fast enough, just a second behind Demora when she feints and aims for the Admiral’s stomach.

 

It’s a direct hit, judging by the wet squish and gasp of pain that follows. The Admiral’s sword droops, and then, so does the rest of her.

 

“If I even had _ five  _ like you,” she gasps when Demora turns to look at her. “I’d have been Empress in a year.”

 

“But you don’t,” Demora says numbly. “You’re dead. You just don’t know it yet.”

 

The Admiral lets out a pained chuckle.

 

“Mihol i-Ra’tlelhfi Jorani,” she says. “That is my name. You will remember it.”

 

“I won’t,” Demora says flatly. “I’ll have my uncles wipe it from my memory.”

 

“You won’t,” Mihol says, still smiling even as blood dyes her perfect teeth green. “The only thing greater than a Human’s vengeance is a Human’s guilt.”

 

Demora stiffens.

 

“I won’t feel guilty over you.”

 

“Perhaps not,” Mihol agrees. “But perhaps I am right. Come here.”

 

“No.”

 

“I won’t harm you— as you’ve said, I’m already dead.” She grunts, trying to sit up. Demora sighs and steps closer.

 

“Don’t make it worse,” she says. “You’re already going to die.”

 

Mihol doesn’t stop struggling, though, and after a moment, Demora crouches down beside her.

 

“Lay back down,” she hisses. “And _ die  _ already.”

 

Mihol surges, her bloody hands finding Demora’s.

 

“You will remember me,” she says, pressing her green blade into Demora’s hands. “Because our guns are still trained on your ship.”

 

She goes stiff, then limp, and her hands slip away from Demora’s, leaving only the blade that Demora had instinctively caught, cutting her palm against its sharpened edge. Demora stays there for a moment, mind going utterly blank at Mihol’s— no, the Admiral’s— words, before shaking herself and getting back to her feet.

 

“How do I turn off the guns, Tubey?” she asks, reaching up to tap her earwhig— except it isn’t there.

 

“Shit,” she mutters, tucking her lightsaber and the Admiral’s sword into her belt unthinkingly. It must have fallen out during the fight. Well, she’s not an idiot. She can figure this out. All she needs to do is find the off switch.

 

Problem is, everything’s in Romulan.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“She cannot hear us,” Tubey says as the Romulan Admiral dies on screen. “Her earwhig has gone dead.”

 

Peter curses, knuckles white where he’s clenched his fingers around the armrests of his chair.

 

“We need to get her out of there,” he says. “Everything’s biometric anyway, she can’t stop them. We need to get out of here.”

 

“Spock and the ambassador are aboard,” Connor says, striding back to his console. “And David’s almost finished with the cannon.”

 

Peter goes very still.

 

“Is he alright?”

 

“He is alive.”

 

Peter hesitates, then, torn between going to see his uncle and seeing this through.

 

“Get him in a suit,” he says at last. “Spock too. Tubey, beam Demora aboard. We are finishing this.”

  
  
  



	12. Chapter 12

“You know, we probably don’t need to actually blow the ship up, since Demo just slaughtered the commanding officers,” David remarks casually as Saavik slips the helmet of the space suit over his head. “Even if the disruptors are still aimed to fire, all we have to do is move out of the way.”

 

“Romulan disruptors track thruster paths, and we do not have the capability to jump into warp until the ship can be repaired from the first assault.” Saavik says, snapping his helmet into place. “And Peter believes it wise to destroy any evidence of a fight. Tubey has discovered that their mission was technically off-the-books, so as long as there is nothing left behind, they cannot use our attack as the basis of a war.”

 

David goes quiet for a moment.

 

“That’s… pretty gruesome,” he says. He’d never thought his cousin could be so bloody-minded.

 

“I am aware,” Saavik says. “But it is the only way.”

 

David sighs.

 

“Alright. Is everyone else suited up?”

 

Saavik nods, moving to check the chains she borrowed from Jo’s room to hook him to the ceiling of the cargo bay. “Jo has been moved to her bedroom to sleep off the concussion I believe she has. She is also dressed.”

 

“Okay.” David takes a deep breath. “Okay. We can do this.”

 

“Yes, we can.” Saavik gives him a small, encouraging smile, pressing a kiss to the glass above his forehead before sliding on her own helmet. “Everything will be well, David.”

 

Yeah, David thinks. All that’ll be left to worry about when this is all over will be the guilt— and, of course, their parents.

  
  


*.*

  
  


When she was younger, she and the Pikes would play knights. They’d make up glorious worlds of honor and chivalry and smile because, somewhere, the universe they’d thought of existed, simply because they’d thought of it.

 

There is nothing but the downward spiral of exhaustion as Demora’s atoms are reassembled on the _ Shu Fu, _ no fire of glorious victory or pride at a successful mission burning in her chest. Demora doesn’t think she’s actually breathing anymore— the pain in her chest as she cuts down the last of them, the Romulan commander, is more reminiscent of dry-heaving. Her body wants to throw up.

 

She does, knees buckling under her.

 

A bottle of water appears in front of her face as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, which she downs half of in one great gulp, passing the bottle back to Saavik with a gasp as she pushes blood-slicked hair back out of her face.

 

“I couldn’t turn off the guns,” Demora says, pushing herself back to her feet.

 

Saavik nods once.

 

“David is ready to fire the cannon,” she says, pressing a space suit into Demora’s hands. “Suit up, then go to the bridge. They need your expertise.”

 

Demora nods, pretending her eyes aren’t crossing with the sudden wave of exhaustion coursing through her blood, and unzips the suit, tossing her weapons to the floor and ignoring the way the blood slicks the suit as she pulls it up over her shoulders.

 

“I need a shower,” she mumbles as Saavik hands her the helmet.

 

“You do,” Saavik agrees. “But that will have to wait.”

 

“Yeah.” Demora puts on the space suit. “Let’s go.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“David, we’re ready to move. Are you?”

 

“Demora, you’re back!” David knows he’s too chipper, but fuck, he’s nervous. “Good. Great.”

 

“David,” Demora says again roughly. “Save it. What are we doing?”

 

“Well, uh, we’re gonna flash the Romulans,” he says. “Point the cargo bay at the ship and open the doors. I’ve got the rest.”

 

“This is such a bad idea,” Peter mutters.

 

“You got a better idea, Petey? Because I’d love to hear it.” David fiddles with the controls, more out of nervousness than anything else. “I’d super love to not be sitting in the only part of this ship that is definitely going to be opened to the vacuum of space, but unfortunately, it’s all we’ve got. Unless, like I said, you’ve got a better idea.”

 

Peter sighs.

 

“Demora, do it,” he says. “David?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Do not be sucked into the vacuum of space. Uncle Jim and Aunt Carol will be very cross with me if you do.” There’s a pause. “And not to mention Saavik.”

 

“I’ll do my best. Saavik?”

 

“Yes, David.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“And I, you.”

 

Saavik must really be scared, if she’s saying it out loud over the comms. She’s a private person, all around— even if she is married to a guy like David.

 

“Alright,” he mutters, tapping his fingers against the controls. “Demora, on my mark. Five, four, three, two…”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Jim is pacing when it happens, rubbing a hole in the thin carpet of the bridge as he mutters mostly-nonsensically to himself about stupid kids and stupider bondmates and why wasn’t  _ anyone  _ in their family normal?

 

(The answer, of course, is because it’s _ his  _ family, and if they were in any way different from what they are, Jim would have been bored out of his mind ages ago.)

 

So yeah. He’s pacing when the screen goes white with light and the _ Enterprise  _ rocks with the force of an explosion they weren’t expecting, knocking everyone to the floor as the shock wave moves past them.

 

He tore his shirt on the way down, which is just typical, but he pays it no mind, shoving himself back to his feet the moment the ship goes still again.

 

“Was that—”

 

“Yes!” Chekov answers, already having thrown himself over his console.

 

“Who—”

 

“The _ Shu Fu!” _

 

Jim blinks.

 

“What the hell was Jo packing to make a light show like that?” Bones asks, more panicked than angry as he stares at the viewscreen.

 

“A Series XI Marcus Plasma Cannon,” Carol says as the turbolift doors slide open and she strides in. “One of Khan’s specialties.”

 

“A— what?”

 

Carol rolls her eyes at Jim and turns to look at the viewscreen.

 

“It’s illegal to buy, sell, or manufacture,” she continues. “So I’m curious as to how the _ Shu Fu  _ got their hands on it in the first place.”

 

“More importantly, where is the Shu Fu?” Sulu asks. “I’m not getting any pings.”

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

“Call them,” Jim says flatly. “Private numbers, too. Now.”

 

Everybody reaches for their comms at once, and Jim— rather politely, in his opinion— pretends it isn’t regulation to keep private comms off of the bridge.

 

Mostly because he’s reaching for his own.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Cargo bays repressurizing now,” Saavik says over the comms. “We will be making the rest of this journey in zero gravity, however— the damage done to the mechanics of the Gravitron Processor is too great to be handled without a proper docking bay. All other systems appear to be in working order.”

 

Peter groans, tapping the comm to respond.

 

“Thanks, Saavik. You can go unhook David, now— take him to Medbay, too. He will need some medical care, I imagine.”

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

Peter waits for a few moments until the systems on the consoles give him the green light, then he unclasps his helmet and lets it float away, unbuckling himself from his chair and turning on the mag boots built into the suit.

 

“Alright,” he says. “Connor, go check on Jo. If she is awake, send her to Medbay to help with Uncle Sarek and David. If not, take her to Medbay anyway, because she is likely concussed. Demora, plot a course for Federation space, please— it is time to face the music. Tubey—”

 

“I will ensure things are running smoothly here,” Tubey says, pulling her helmet off and tucking it under her arm. Her hair, the longest Peter’s ever seen it at shoulder-length, floats up around her face in long, snakelike tendrils, framing her flat expression like a non-lethal Medusa. “While you go check on your uncle.”

 

Peter hesitates.

 

“I do not—”

 

Tubey reaches out, gripping Peter’s shoulder tightly.

 

“You have seen us through the worst of it,” she says, her thumb finding the hollow of his collarbone through the suit. “I can take it from here. Go see Uncle Sarek. There will still be plenty left to do when you get back, I promise you.”

 

Peter doesn’t answer for a beat, likely attempting to formulate a reasonable argument. Then, just like that, he slumps, one hand reaching up to snake around Tubey’s wrist.

 

“Alright,” he says, meeting her clear brown eyes with his own bloodshot blue. “Thank you, Tubey.”

 

Clearly he’s exhausted and showing it, because Tubey actually _ smiles  _ at him, just a quick quirk of her lips as she lets her hand slide away.

 

“Go,” she says. “We will be here.”

 

Peter nods quietly and turns away, his stride barely changed with the added fun of mag boots. Tubey watches him go, waiting until he disappears down into the main hold before turning back to a filthy Demora.

 

“So… does that mean you’re the first mate now?” she asks, chin propped up on the back of her seat as she peers up at Tubey. “Or, first officer, I guess.”

 

Tubey hums thoughtfully.

 

“I would make a good first officer,” she says. “Like my mother before me. Though I do not think it is suitable to call myself an officer when I am not a part of Starfleet. Perhaps first mate is more correct.”

 

Demora arches an eyebrow, sinking back into her chair with a tired sigh.

 

“Does that mean I should start taking bets, then?” she asks, moving to plug in the last known coordinates of the _ Enterprise,  _ as logged by Tubey herself.

 

“On what?”

 

“Well, you know, our family’s got a history when it comes to captains and their first officers,” Demora says, a sly smile on her face as her fingers fly across her console. “Uncle Jim and Uncle Spock, Grandpa Chris and Auntie One… I mean, it could be a coincidence, but when does our family ever just deal in coincidences?”

 

“You are implying a pattern.”

 

“I calls ‘em like I sees ‘em, Tubes.”

 

Tubey stays quiet, eyes thoughtful.

 

“Peter is intelligent,” she says after a moment. “He does not grate like other boys do— and they are so very grating. He is handsome, accomplished, and understanding of my habits. He values my opinion, and will recognize my authority when needed. I do not… dislike this idea.”

 

Demora snorts.

 

“I’ll start taking bets,” she says. “And no, you can’t bet. Or Peter.”

 

“Damn.” Tubey moves to look over Demora’s readings. “And here I was planning to make some money from this venture.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ambassador Sarek? Saved  
> The children? In deep shit.
> 
> Side note: Not being allowed to place bets on yourself is a family wide rule. Because of Number One.


	13. Chapter 13

Jo is moving around the Medbay when Peter steps inside, her curly red hair matted at the temple with blood from an ugly gash she likely sustained during the first attack. The rest of her hair is pulled up in a single, high bun on top of her head— an unusual look, considering she’s always preferred pigtails. She’s standing by the small biobed, a mostly clean, mangled hand held gently in her own gloved one as she runs the regenerator over bare, yellow-white bone. Spock sits by the door, elbows propped up on his knees in a decidedly Jim-like pose as he watches.

 

He looks up when Peter appears.

 

“How is he?” he asks, eyes glued to his uncle’s prone form on the biobed.

 

“Joanna believes she will be able to save what is left of his middle finger,” Spock says, tone flatter than usual. “And it is likely that Dr. McCoy will be able to save what is left of the ring. They will have to remove what remains of his pinky— a bacterial infection has developed, and while Joanna has started his treatment, the damage has already been done.”

 

Peter swallows.

 

“We took too long,” he says.

 

“No.” Spock shakes his head. “You came when you were needed most. Another day or two, perhaps, and the Romulans would have tired of their game and killed him outright.”

 

Peter’s breath hitches at the thought.

 

“A game,” he murmurs. “Is that what this was?”

 

“They were attempting to incite a war, I imagine,” Spock says. “They have been nervous of the Federation ever since the Narada Incident. Ambassador Spock had made comments in the past that the Romulans were wary of our government, being made up predominantly of Vulcans, now endangered thanks to a Romulan’s work, and Humans, who are known to be… impulsive. Washing their hands of the stigma of the first strike would ensure cooperation from other galactic neighbors, such as the Klingons and whoever lives on the other side of Romulan space, as well as relieve the tension they now feel as they wait for _ our  _ first strike.” He sighs. “Of course, this is all supposition. We cannot truly understand their reasoning behind the kidnapping.”

 

Peter nods quietly, too tired to give all that information the thought it demands.

 

“Do you mind if I—”

 

“Of course, Peter. He was anxious to see you, when we first beamed aboard.”

 

And Peter wasn’t there, too busy running a ship to come.

 

“Jo,” he says, stepping up to the bed. “Can you give us a minute?”

 

“I’ll even give you two,” she says, leaving her PADD to float beside the biobed. “But after that, he needs to rest. A healing trance would do him good.”

 

Peter nods, and Jo moves away to talk to Spock, more for herself than for him. Peter takes the seat by the biobed, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

 

“Uncle,” he says.

 

“Peter.” Sarek’s gaze is foggy, his control impeded by the sedatives Jo likely gave him. “You noticed I did not call.”

 

Peter looks down at his hands.

 

“Of course I did,” he says. “You always call when you say you will.”

 

“And that was your first indication something was amiss?”

 

“The first, yes.” Peter runs his thumb over the embroidered edge of his wide sleeve. “Then, I rode to the public docks, and found you had not boarded your ship. I called Jo, and in the time it took for her to arrive with my cousins, I had received a package from your kidnappers.”

 

He winces at the thought. They left that finger in the refrigerator before they left.

 

“Normally, I would berate you for leaping to conclusions and putting yourself and your family in harm’s way,” Sarek says after a moment. “But I find I have neither the energy nor the will to argue with you. You are a Kirk, and such is your nature.”

 

Peter swallows.

 

“I am glad you are safe,” he says softly. “I am glad I did what I did. I could not bear it if you had died because of my inaction.”

 

“Not by your inaction, but rather the actions of another.” A hand touches Peter’s face, startling him. Sarek’s eyes are glassy and painfully fond. “You are too much like a leader, Peter. You shoulder guilt that is not yours to bear.”

 

Peter lets out a huff of laughter— something he would never do, normally.

 

“Demora called me captain, you know,” he says quietly. “I would not be surprised if the rest follow suit by the time we get to the _ Enterprise. _ They are… like that.”

 

“A captain?” Sarek says, arching an eyebrow. “It seems you jump rank even quicker than your uncle. Make sure you tell him— it will make him painfully jealous.”

 

Peter opens his mouth to respond, but just then, David is hauled into the Medbay by Saavik, hissing as he’s jostled more than he’d like.

 

“Bruised ribs, I believe,” Saavik says, eyebrow twitching with annoyance. “Possibly cracked.”

 

“Well, that’s good,” Peter says. “Could you have Demora come to Medbay? She needs to be checked over— burns very rarely heal nicely.”

 

“No need— we are here,” Tubey announces, hands clamped around Demora’s shoulders as she frogmarches her into the Medbay. “Connor has the _ Enterprise _ in sight, now— he can handle any comm calls until Demora can return to the helm.”

 

“Excellent.” Peter pushes himself to his feet. “With that in mind, anyone who is healthy and not Jo should leave. There is not enough space for us all—”

 

“We have been caught by the _ Enterprise’s  _ tractor beam,” Connor’s voice echoes tinnily through the PA. “We will be aboard the ship in an hour, at the most.”

 

“Oh, shit, we’re in trouble,” David mumbles from where he lies on the other biobed.

 

“Didn’t you tell them we were going to them anyway?” Demora demands, leaning over to speak into the comm hooked to the wall.

 

“I did,” Connor answers. “But then they said we did not answer our comms, and therefore cannot be trusted to use common sense. Uncle Bones’ words, not mine.”

 

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” Jo mutters, not looking up from David as she unzips his space suit.

 

“My dad’s gonna kill me,” Demora says quietly. “For being here, for getting on that ship—”

 

“Please. He’s gonna kill all of us for letting you on that ship in the— ow!— first place,” David says, frowning as Jo slides her hands a tad too rough across his chest. “Even though it wasn’t our fault.”

 

“He will not kill you for boarding the enemy ship, or any of us,” Tubey says calmly. “Remember, we told everyone I was aboard the warbird, not you.”

 

“But I’m a mess!” Demora says, voice pitched high as the beginnings of a panic attack are born. “And I’m injured, and I went into space in the first place, and—”

 

“Demora, calm yourself,” Spock orders, rising to his feet. “This will be handled.”

 

_ “How?”  _ she demands.

 

“Simple— we keep our mouths shut.” Peter glances at Spock, who nods and gestures for him to continue. “The story remains the same. Tubey went aboard first while you remained on the ship, helping Saavik in the engine room. You were burned when we were shot at, the force of the attack knocking you into a hot pipe. You are going to go clean yourself up and change while Jo handles David’s ribs, and then she will heal you. Nobody needs to know anything.”

 

“Except Jim,” Spock says. “Obviously.”

 

Peter pauses.

 

“Is he going to say anything?” he asks. “At least, in front of Sulu?”

 

Spock goes quiet a moment, gaze turning distant, before he returns to them, shaking his head.

 

“He will keep his peace,” he says. “But he may wish to speak with you in private, Demora— to all of you, in fact.”

 

“Done,” Peter says. “Demo, go shower. Tubey, make sure Connor has the story straight. Saavik, make sure our ship does not explode before we get there?”

 

“I’ll stay here, obviously,” Jo says. “Maybe call my Dad. He’s going to need to know about Uncle Sarek’s status.”

 

“Of course.” Peter looks at Spock. “Would you like to change?”

 

“There is no need. I will stay with our father.”

 

Peter nods once.

 

“I will be in my quarters if anyone needs me,” he says, and with that, he walks out.

 

“Captain Peter Kirk,” David wheezes from his biobed. “Who’d’ve thunk it?”

 

“You need to step up your game, David,” Saavik agrees. “Before you become the only civilian Kirk in the galaxy. Grandma Winnie will never let you live it down.”

 

David raises one hand, just high enough to flip her off.

 

Saavik arches an unimpressed eyebrow.

 

“You cannot purchase this kind of love,” she says to Jo.

 

Jo glances between David on the table and Saavik turning to Demora.

 

“Clearance rack?” she stage whispers.

 

“Thrift store at best,” Demora whispers back.

 

Saavik rolls her eyes and leaves.

 

Spock sighs.

 

“Demora, go bathe. While I am sure your Aunt One would be proud to see you drenched in the blood of your enemies, your father will not.”

 

Demora winces at the mention of her father and slips out after Saavik, and after a moment, Tubey follows her.

 

“... Jim is quite proud of his nieces and nephews, I imagine,” Sarek says after a beat.

 

“He will be,” Spock admits. “But for now, he is furious.”

 

“Good,” Sarek says, letting himself relax back onto the biobed. “I believe it would be ungrateful of me to scold them properly. He can be the adult for once in his life.”

 

“I quite agree, father.”


	14. Chapter 14

They’d stepped off the  _ Shu Fu _ into a swarm of angry primary colors. Peter doesn’t remember much of it— the adrenaline that had kept him going over the course of the last thirty-six or so hours has dissipated at this point, and now, with Uncle Bones having hustled Uncle Sarek away to a proper Medbay, David and Saavik finding themselves on the wrong end of the combination of Carol Marcus’ and Jim Kirk’s ire, and Demora literally dragged away by the ear by her father, he finds himself wanting nothing more than to collapse onto something vaguely flat and stay that way until he’s planetside again.

 

(Jo, much to her credit, had taken advantage of the initial chaos to turn on her heel and disappear back aboard the _ Shu Fu  _ after handing over a still-weak-but-doing-better Sarek. She’s thirty-three years old, for God’s sake, and her daddy knows as well as she does he can’t ground her anymore.)

 

Peter doesn’t realize he’s listing to one side until Connor shuffles under his shoulder to keep him upright.

 

“Peter needs to sleep,” Connor says, looking at Tubey.

 

“He does,” Tubey agrees. “Aunt Uhura, you do not appear to have been caught in the madness that has struck the rest of our family. Could you please direct us to an unused cabin?”

 

Uhura, who appears to have come at least partially to watch the circus unfold in the aftermath of what Peter is now willing to admit is probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done, smiles.

 

“Sure,” she says. “Just follow me.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Peter’s out like a light the moment his head hits the pillow and sleeps for sixteen hours, once waking up with a racing heartbeat and a cry on his lips before being settled back into the bed by a set of soft, long-fingered hands.

 

“Tubey will return in a moment,” Connor says, eyes glowing eerily in the full darkness of the guest quarters. “She has gone to procure entertainment for us— according to the ship’s computer, Uncle Jim is still in Aunt Carol’s rooms, ripping David a new asshole.”

 

Peter rubs a hand over his face, trying to fight the way that sleep is already dragging him back down.

 

“What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?” he mumbles, eyes rolling up when he tries to focus on Connor’s face.

 

“It means that Uncle Jim’s quarters are empty, and his holoplayer unguarded.”

 

Peter doesn’t answer that, already fast asleep again.

 

The second time he wakes up, it’s to the strange, lilting tones of an alien language, spoken in hushed voices. He opens his eyes carefully, finding Tubey and Connor and the rest of the room awash in the pale blue light of the holoplayer. Their dark heads are bent together, faces turned away from Peter as careful syllables of Illyrian fall from their mouths.

 

It sounds sort of like a cross between birdsong and a chainsaw, is Peter’s last thought before he lets himself fall back asleep.

 

He’ll probably keep that thought to himself.

  
  


*.*

  
  


When Peter wakes up properly after sixteen hours of mostly uninterrupted sleep, it’s thanks to the combination of an elbow to the side and a heavy hand slapping him in the chest.

 

He’s up like a shot, shoving mussed bangs out of his eyes as his eyes dart around the room in a panic.

 

“What— oh.” He stills when his eyes find his only blood uncle sitting unnaturally prim at the small dining table in their quarters.

 

Uncle Jim gives him a pleasant smile.

 

“See? You’re not the only ones who know how to sneak.” He pats the holoplayer on the table ominously, a strange glint in his eye as his gaze settles on Peter.

 

“Hey, Petey,” he says. “How’d you sleep?”

 

“Um.” It’s right about then that Peter realizes he’s sandwiched between the twins, both of whom appear to be holding the Macgyvered tasers David had made on the _ Shu Fu.  _ “Fine?”

 

Jim’s smile widens.

 

“Good, that’s good,” he says. “Because we’re almost home, and Space Grandpa is definitely going to want to know why his kids have been missing for the past few days.”

 

“We aided Peter in the rescue of our Uncle,” Connor says, sounding confused.

 

“We messaged mother,” Tubey adds. “We had permission.”

 

Jim’s mouth twists irritatedly.

 

“Pikes,” he barks. “Out. Now.”

 

Neither of them move, except to look at Peter.

 

He sighs.

 

“Go,” he says. “Get something to eat, if you are hungry, and check on the others, if you can.”

 

“Alright,” Tubey says, stowing her taser God only knows where and hopping out of the bed without hesitation. Connor follows her, only a step behind, pausing only to grab both of their shoes before slipping out into the hall.

 

Now, it’s just Peter, still wearing a pair of jeans he’d borrowed from Jo the morning before they found the Romulan ship and the too-big sweatshirt he’d pilfered from Grandpa Chris nearly a decade ago, and Uncle Jim, looking unusually sharp in his Starfleet uniform.

 

“You’re a moron, Pete, do you understand that?” Jim says, his voice still quiet and conversational. “Not only were you aware that Sarek was meeting with the Romulans, but you called your cousins— the youngest of which is _ fifteen— _ and had them come to you just in time to look at a severed finger and decide a suicide mission was the answer.” He pauses. “At what point were you going to call us?”

 

“We would have,” Peter says. “But the delicate nature of the political implications—”

 

“Yeah, I call bullshit on that,” Jim says dismissively. “You knew well and good there are other ways to handle a situation like this, and that we would have figured it out. And what’s worse, you knew from the moment you didn’t get that phone call _ exactly  _ what you were going do.”

 

“I did not—”

 

“You called Jo, who you knew was on Earth,” Jim interrupts. “Knowing that she usually crashes at the Pikes on her off-time. You knew she’d probably be sitting with the twins when you called to ask her to come and bring David and Saavik along. You knew the twins would be interested, and that they’d probably drag Demora along too, because that’s what they do. You knew all of this stuff, and you fucking did it anyway.”

 

Peter winces.

 

“This was not what I intended,” he says quietly, fiddling with the ratty sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I was— afraid, and aware I could not think clearly. I thought it would be better to have someone with me, someone who would not have to worry about their duty first. So I called Jo, and had her collect David and Saavik. I did not think about the twins or Demora. I just wanted someone with me.”

 

Jim softens slightly.

 

“Okay,” he says. “I get that, I do, but— Pete, you’ve gotta understand: everyone could have  _ died.  _ You ran half-cocked at a  _ warship,  _ outgunned and outmanned, and by some miracle everyone survived. That doesn’t happen everyday, Pete.”

 

“I know that very well, Uncle Jim,” Peter says, ice creeping into his tone. “This is not my first rodeo.”

 

It’s Jim that winces, now.

 

“I know— Jesus, Peter, I know,” he says, moving from his place at the table to perch on the edge of the bed. “And that’s why I’m so pissed off, do you get that?”

 

Peter supposes he does, in an abstract way. He hasn’t thought about it too much.

 

Jim sighs.

 

“You’re a lot like Sam, you know,” he says. “Sam always knew how to keep out of trouble, how to observe from a distance and move on. It was pretty much a freak accident, him being killed. It  _ shouldn’t’ve _ happened— not to him, not to your mom or your brother or your sister. But it did, and you’re what’s left.

 

“Do you have any idea how scared shitless I was when Connor called and said your name and the word ‘situation’ in the same sentence?” Jim asks. “Here I was, thinking you’d be safe with Sarek, and all of a sudden you’re sitting in the _ Romulan Neutral Zone  _ with the entire brood of Alpha Kids in a third-hand junker? David, you know, he can take care of himself— he takes after his mom that way, and anyway, he’s got Saavik. The Pike twins go without saying, and so does Demora because they’d never let anything happen to her. Jo’s a little iffy, but she’s a big girl, she can handle it. You, though…” Jim trails off. “You’re _ Sam’s  _ kid. And not just in the superficial, you-became-a-botany-nerd-too kind of way. You’re all that’s left of my big brother. And yeah, maybe that sounds stupid, and we were never close the way _ normal  _ siblings should be, but— Christ, Pete, do you get me?”

 

“I had to go,” Peter says, voice small. “I would have gone alone, if I could have, but you know as well as I do they would not allow it.”

 

Jim sighs, reaching out to wrap an arm around Peter’s shoulders and pulling him into a hug.

 

“The fear has definitely turned into anger, after the fact,” he says, rocking his nephew just slightly. “We are all equally pissed at all of you.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You should have called us.”

 

“I know.”

 

_ “Before  _ you went haring off into the Neutral Zone.”

 

“I know.”

 

Jim hums, shifting to allow for Peter to rest his head on Jim’s shoulder.

 

“You know, Pete,” he says after a moment. “I should be yelling at you. Everyone else got an earful— except for the Pike twins, but that’s only ‘til they’re on Earth again— so it would only be fair.” He squeezes Peter’s shoulder. “But then, I know Demora’s been calling you captain, and Tubey’s looking to you for orders which means Connor’s listening to you, and David and Saavik both make it sound like you took charge the moment you all left New Vulcan. With all that, plus the fact that you just _ dismissed  _ Tubey and Connor tells me that you are very, very aware that you’ve got a lot of power right now, and as we all know, with great power, comes great responsibility.”

 

Peter makes a face, but doesn’t interrupt.

 

“I know I make it look stupidly easy,” Jim says. “But being in charge is really fucking hard. You’re not an idiot, either— I can tell just by looking at you that you were terrified that anything, and I mean _ anything,  _ could happen and leave you a man short. I know that feeling. I feel it  _ every _ day.”

 

Peter makes a small, wet noise against Jim’s shoulder.

 

“It was horrible,” he admits, words muffled by yellow fabric. “I hated every minute of it.”

 

Jim huffs a laugh.

 

“Yeah, most people do, once they get what the fancy title actually means,” he says. “It may be too late for you, though— from what I can tell, our family’s made up of stubborn fools, and we tend to imprint.”

 

Peter huffs a ragged laugh.

 

“Perish the thought,” he says.

 

“Too late!” Jim moves to get up, dragging Peter with him. “Now, come on. Food, then shower, then Sarek, in that order— it won’t do to let him think we aren’t taking care of you.”

 

Peter wants to argue, but the moment he opens his mouth his stomach grumbles, loud enough to charm another smile onto Jim’s face.

 

“C’mon,” he says, clapping Peter on the back. “I’ll show you around.”

 

Food, shower, Uncle Sarek.

 

Yeah, Peter can live with that.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, our friends, is the end of the story proper. Ambassador Sarek has been saved! There will be one more chapter, which is more of an epilogue than anything else, and then we're off to the next installment in this series!


	15. Chapter 15

“Peter, hey, can I talk to you for a sec?”

 

David looks like he’s been playing in his mother’s labs again. His eyebrows are singed, and his hair’s held back by the sheer power of safety goggles. His eyes are a little wild, though, which is unusual, considering he’s been hanging out with his mother.

 

“What has happened?” Peter asks, slowing to a stop to look at his cousin properly.

 

“Nothing— nothing’s happened. I just wanted to know if me and Saavik could beam down to New Vulcan with you? Just for a minute?”

 

“... Why?”

 

“Well, uh, Saavik pointed something out that is… probably important, and shouldn’t be thought about by you or Uncle Sarek.” David shifts awkwardly, rolling his shoulders and tugging loose yellow curls free of the strap of his goggles. “I thought it might be a good idea to take care of it.”

 

Peter’s eyes narrow.

 

“David, what are you talking about?”

 

David opens his mouth, but he’s cut off before he can fumble his way through an explanation.

 

“Ambassador Sarek lost three fingers,” Saavik says, appearing on Peter’s other side.

 

“... I am aware, yes.”

 

Saavik fixes him with a dark look.

 

“You only received one finger in the mail, on the day we left for the Neutral Zone,” she says. “It would not be wrong to think perhaps there was a purpose to the removal of fingers two and three.”

 

Peter stares at her, eyes widening slowly as realization filters in.

 

“There are two fingers sitting in my mailbox right now,” he murmurs. “Oh my God.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” David says. “So: do you mind?”

 

“Not at all.” Peter pauses. “Try and be subtle?”

 

“Of course, Pete. What are cousins for if not to hide the gruesome realities from each other’s parents?” David gives him a big, sarcastic grin. “See you in the transporter room.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“I’m checking the mail!” David blurts out the moment they’re on Vulcan ground, taking off at a run towards the front gates.

 

Sarek arches an eyebrow, tracking David’s path curiously before looking at Peter and Saavik.

 

“We do not receive mail at this residence,” Sarek remarks. “Everything is forwarded to a post office box in town.”

 

“Yes,” Peter agrees, carefully turning his face away. “I wonder why.”

 

“That would be my fault,” Saavik says, expression unusually flat. “I purchased a number of items on our journey home, and rather than deal with our overly-curious roommates, I had the packages sent here with the knowledge that we would be able to pick them up on our way.”

 

Sarek nods thoughtfully.

 

“If I may ask, why did you not have them sent to the Pike house, or to the Sulus?” he asks. “Surely it would have been more convenient.”

 

“Yes, but Number One is, if anything, worse, and I would not like to explain myself to her.” Saavik clasps her hands behind her back, bouncing on the balls of her feet almost idly. “While I do not mind speaking of the items I have purchased, explaining how each item will be used in the pursuit of pleasure is less than ideal.”

 

Peter’s eyes are the size of dinner plates when David jogs back up to them, two square boxes poking out of the wide pockets of his sweatshirt.

 

“What are we talking about?” he asks, trying for casual.

 

Peter could be kind, could wave him off and shuffle them both back out to the beaming point before it gets anymore awkward. But Peter’s also tired— his control has been shot to shit over the course of the last few days and he’s really only just getting it back together, he’s got to find a way to secretly trash the finger still sitting in his refrigerator, and honestly? David is too perfect to not tease when an opportunity shows itself.

 

With all that in mind, Peter looks his big cousin dead in the eye and says,

 

“Your sex life.”

 

The view is really something. David’s face goes from its normal Kirkish tan to sheet white to tomato red, flushing up to the roots of his golden hair as he looks between Saavik, Sarek, and Peter only to realize that _ Peter isn’t lying. _

 

“I um, yeah? That’s interesting,” he says, taking a step back. “Saavik, we should go, they’re probably waiting for us—”

 

“Yes, you should,” Sarek agrees cordially. “Enjoy yourselves, children. I believe, however, that it is time for me to retire.”

 

Peter keeps his face perfectly blank as David and Saavik are beamed back onto the Enterprise, just to prove he can.

 

“They were lying,” Sarek remarks once they’ve disappeared. “As were you.”

 

Peter hesitates, then nods.

 

“Yes,” he agrees.

 

“I imagine the packages in David’s pockets held my missing fingers.”

 

“... I imagine you are right.” Peter looks down. “We thought it best to—”

 

“To discreetly hide any unsavory leftovers of my kidnapping and subsequent torture,” Sarek finishes. “I appreciate the gesture, Peter.”

 

Peter clears his throat awkwardly.

 

“If you knew we were lying,” he says. “Why did you ask Saavik what was in the packages?”

 

“Because Saavik is very clever, and knew from the moment she spoke that I knew she was lying, and would save the situation with humor.” Sarek gives Peter a rare smile, the corners of his mouth turning up for just a moment before flattening again. “And David is easy to tease.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Levity aids the Human psyche,” Sarek says. “Particularly after a traumatic event. I thought you would appreciate it.”

 

“...” Peter leans then, pressing himself for just a moment along his uncle’s side. “Thanks for looking out for me, Uncle Sarek.”

 

“Of course, Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! As of this moment in time, our storyboard has us doing three more fics in this series (because for once in our lives we actually have a real plan as opposed to a rough outline of an idea).
> 
> Want to scream at the authors? Direct your yells to [not-freyja](https://not-freyja.tumblr.com) and [straight-outta-hobbiton](https://straight-outta-hobbiton.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


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